


Far Side of the Moon

by thisgirlnani



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Romance, F/M, bamf sansa and dark-ish jon, does not take place in westeros canon, jon is referred to as jaehaerys for a good chunk of the story, they're still all royalty but there's only the northern and southern kingdom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24397669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlnani/pseuds/thisgirlnani
Summary: Intent on taking over the Northern Kingdom, King Rhaegar Targaryen executes Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark on false charges, forever changing Sansa Stark's world.Imprisoned in King's Landing with her older brother, she awaits death. King Rhaegar has other plans for her-plans that involve his bastard son Jaehaerys.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 438
Kudos: 972





	1. a new form of imprisonment

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify, this story does NOT take place in the canon universe, nor is it a divergence from canon. This takes place in an entirely different AU where there are only 2 kingdoms (North and South) that have been in contention for a while but existed independently in fragile peace until Rhaegar Targaryen killed Eddard and Catelyn Stark, effectively conquering the Northern Kingdom. 
> 
> (Also, these northern and southern kingdoms are in close proximity, because 1) i can, since it's an AU 2)plot convenience reasons lmao)
> 
> Thank you guys for giving this story a chance! I hope this clarifies things!

Rhaegar Targaryen was equal parts beautiful, and terrifying.

Sansa had never quite gotten a good look at the King till now, as she stood before him, in tattered cotton and grime that stuck to every crevice of her body. It had been 4 long months of imprisonment in King’s Landing, 4 long months since she had last seen Robb, and 4 long months since they had watched as their parents has been executed outside the castle walls.

The King had been watching as well. He had delighted in the whole affair. From the castle’s parapets he had gathered his family, and denounced Eddard and Catelyn Stark as dangers to the Southern kingdom. Robb had been thrashing about wildly, barely restrained by 3 guards, while Sansa had been deathly still, paralyzed by fear and agony.

The blade had sliced through the air, slashing her life in distinct halves. There had been the ‘before’, where she had been Sansa Stark, princess of Winterfell, and then there was the ‘after’, where she was now without a family, without a home, and without her freedom.

“I trust you’ve been well, dear Sansa?” The King addressed her, seated lazily on his throne. His violet eyes searched her, and she carefully, gave him nothing. He knew of her conditions. The cramped concrete cell which barely had a hole for her to relieve herself had been abhorrent. She received 2 meals a day. One in the morning and one at night, usually consisting of stale bread and various odds and ends from the kitchen, as though someone had sifted through the trash with a blindfold on. Worst of all, were the insufferable guards, comprised of pathetic men who had egos thrice their actual capabilities. They loved to torment her, jeering insults of ‘wolf bitch’ and ‘mutt’, and threatening to have their way with her if she stepped out of line.

Sansa recalled all this, managed a neutral expression and replied, “Of course. You have been generous, your Grace.”

That made him laugh. “Oh, even _now_ you are a perfect lady.” She had been taught well by her mother, Catelyn Stark née Tully. While Arya, her younger sister, took pride in being bold, brash and unapologetic. Sansa had taken her own pleasure in perfecting her courtesies and diplomatic niceties. There was a time and place for everything, and right now, in front of the Mad King himself, the only armor she had was her pretty words.

“I wanted to give you good news.” Sansa braced herself for terrible news, instead.

Shortly after her parent’s death, while in the cells, she had heard of Bran and Rickon’s demise. The Targaryen soldiers had been dispatched to capture the children that had remained in Winterfell. News of Arya’s death never came, though every morning, when Sansa woke, she feared it would be the day her little sister was no more. She and Robb had been separated in imprisonment, and so the uncertainty regarding her two remaining siblings, had eaten away at her.

“Sansa,” The King stood from his place. His violet eyes shimmered in the low light of the Grand Hall. “You know my son, Jaehaerys, yes?”

_Jaehaerys Targaryen._

She knew little of him, but it was impossible not to at least know of Jaehaerys Targaryen, the famed Bastard Prince.

His mother, Lyanna, had been a cousin of her Eddard Stark. The illicit affair between Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen had long been an embarrassment to the Northern Kingdom, and a popular topic of gossip. As a child, she had heard stories of the bastard son that greatly resembled the Starks. When they had first come to King’s Landing, 4 months ago, and caught sight of him, Robb had elbowed her meaningfully, but there was no need, she’d already seen him. He stuck out like a sore thumb, black curls and grey eyes, among his silver-haired family.

 _“I hear he commands the armed forces of the Targaryens.”_ _Robb had murmured under his breath._

_“Aegon, the heir, does not?” Sansa hummed in surprise._

_“Pah,” Robb snorted. “The heir knows only how to brush his silver hair and speak prettily. Father told me it’s Jaehaerys who is regarded to be the strongest fighter in the South.”_

_Sansa giggled behind her hand. “And you are the strongest fighter of the North. Will we see who the better man is?” She loved to rile her brother’s competitive spirit._

_“There will be no competition.” Robb had declared, confidently._

“I have heard of his great strength.” Sansa replied, slowly, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Sadly, I did not have the pleasure of speaking with him.” The dark-haired prince was seldom in court. When he was, his dark glower hardly invited company.

The king’s smile widened. “Well, worry not, dear Sansa.” She bit down on her tongue – _hard._ The way King Rhaegar spoke to her so familiarly, as though he hadn’t slaughtered more than half of her family was infuriating. Her blood simmered beneath her skin and she fought to maintain a neutral countenance. King Rhaegar paid her no mind and continued speaking. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice.

“I intend for the two of you too wed. You’ll get to speak plenty in the meantime.”

It took a whole minute for her to process what Rhaegar had just said. Sansa’s knees nearly buckled from underneath her. _Marriage?_ When they’d pulled her from the cells, she was certain death awaited her, not marriage! At least in death she could be free of the Targaryens, but a union between her and the bastard prince was just another form of imprisonment. Her breath became shallow, and she felt a sudden onslaught of tears.

She could hear Arya’s scolding voice. _You cry at everything, Sans._

She bit down harder on her lower lip. She would _not_ give the satisfaction of letting the man who had caused all her suffering to see her shed tears. He did not deserve it.

Still, her anxiety worsened, and her stomach knotted tightly with thoughts of her impending union to the bastard prince. He was undoubtedly cruel and violent. One _had_ to be, in order to the be the general of the Targaryen army. He would force himself on her, beat her if he was unhappy with her-

“You look as though you’ll be ill.” Rhaegar sneered, cutting into her thoughts. Any trace of his earlier congeniality had disappeared. “Are you dissatisfied with my generosity? I save you from the prison cells, offer you a marriage to my son, and you _dare_ to be displeased?”

“N-no.” Sansa’s voice wobbled, as she tried to pull herself together. “I-I could not thank you enough for your kindness, your Grace. I am only surprised. I did not think myself worthy.”

The lie fooled nobody, but it appeased his anger, momentarily. He settled back in his throne. “There was never a better bastard borne, than Jaehaerys. Though your kingdom is no longer, you remain a highborn lady, Sansa.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me regret giving you to him.”

 _I am not a thing that can be given._ Sansa swallowed her anger and pride with great difficulty. “Of course.” She murmured with a respectful inclination of her head. “I hope to please both you and the prince.”

“Good. _Trant_!” He gestured to one of the guards, “Send in Lady Margaery.” The King turned back to Sansa, “Lady Margaery will see that you get settled. As my eldest son’s wife, she’s been a great help to our family, I trust you will follow closely in her footsteps.”

_Margaery? As in Margaery Tyrell?_

Sansa’s thoughts were swiftly confirmed as the daughter of Highgarden swept in smelling of roses and wearing a scandalously cut silk dress. Margaery Tyrell had been the envy of every young lady of Southern court. Everyone knew she would marry well with her beauty and wit, that entrapped any man who laid eyes on her. Even Robb had been smitten with her beauty, much to Sansa’s annoyance. It seemed she had secured Aegon Targaryen during Sansa’s imprisonment, an impressive achievement for House Tyrell.

“Father!” Margaery greeted brightly, curtseying slightly before bounding up the steps to press a light kiss to Rhaegar Targaryen’s cheek whilst he beamed at her. Sansa felt sick at it all. If she was expected to do the same- _gods,_ it would take all of her strength.

The woman turned her attention to Sansa. “So, Lady Sansa is to be my new sister!” She assessed her, with bright eyes. “Goodness, were you always so skinny?”

 _Perhaps it’s because I’ve been half-starved in the cells, Lady Margaery._ Even in court, when Sansa had met Lady Margaery’s acquaintance, she had been aware of her beauty and Southern style that contrasted greatly with the North’s more conservative style of dress and hair. But especially now, as she stood before her in filthy clothes and matted hair, she felt acute shame at her state.

“You’ll see her to her bedroom?” The king’s nose wrinkled. “Perhaps have her bathe quickly. I don’t think I can bear the stench, much longer.” Sansa pressed her lips tightly together.

“Of course, my King.” She cooed. “Have I let you down before?” Margaery descended the steps and placed a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Lady Sansa, if you will.”

Sansa started to follow, but paused, remembering the question that had been on her mind, since the moment the guards had taken her. She had to ask about Robb. Was he still alive, and kept in the cells? “Your Grace?”

“Mm?” His brow arched in surprise at her direct address.

“I apologize if I am speaking out of turn, but my _brother-“_

Two things happened simultaneously.

First, Margaery’s hold on her shoulder tightened, a clear sign that she had erred. But, if that had been too subtle, Sansa certainly had an increasing feeling of dread as she watched the King’s expression slowly contort into one of fury. His neck reddened, and he stood up with a start.

“ _Trant_!” he screamed. Sansa trembled at the terrible sound. _What had she done?_ Margaery’s hold on her shoulder dropped.

“Hit Lady Sansa across the face for her insolence.” The King directed brusquely.

She didn’t have time to be scared. The guard had made his way over, before she fully realized what he had ordered. She blinked, and then Trant struck swiftly with his calloused hand, and with such force that she was knocked to the ground.

Her head throbbed with acute pain, and her cheek blazed in fiery pain. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the guard ask. “Would you like me to hit her once more, your Grace?”

“No.” Sansa sagged in relief. “We’ll leave her face pretty for the wedding.” Rhaegar spat out. “Hopefully once is enough to teach this mutt a lesson.”

“Very well.” Trant acquiesced. Sansa stared up, dazedly. Trant had an ugly, gloating expression, and it was clear he had taken great pleasure in hitting her.

“Get up,” the King hissed at her. “And get out of my sight.” He was trembling with anger. His sudden rage was bewildering. But, one thing was clear to Sansa. In the 4 months of her imprisonment, _something_ with Robb had happened.

Sansa didn’t know where she found the strength, but she got to her feet, shakily, eager to get away from the Mad king. Lady Margaery was already halfway to the door, and so Sansa followed obediently, clutching at her cheek.

* * *

Sansa walked in humiliated silence as Lady Margaery led her to an entirely different wing of the castle.

She could not stop replaying the incident in her mind, how quickly King Rhaegar’s temperament changed, and his unbridled fury at the mention of Robb. It gave her some hope that they had not executed Robb, while she had been imprisoned separately from him. If Robb was dead, there was no way that Rhaegar would have been that furious at the mere mention of him.

“This will be your room till the wedding.” Margaery stopped, and pushed the door open. “King Rhaegar has been generous in allowing you to have one of the suites. There’s a bath through there, so you can get cleaned up if you wish. I’ll have one of my maids deliver a few of my smaller dresses. Lady Sansa?”

“Hm?” Sansa looked up. “Sorry, I-“ she tried to push away thoughts of Robb. “I was thinking of my cheek.” There was a vanity set up by the windows, and Sansa caught sight of her reflection. There was an angry red welt on her cheek and _god_ she _was_ scarily thin.

“Ah,” Margaery tsked. “I’ll have the castle’s physician come by with a soothing ointment.” She paused, as if contemplating her next words. “And god knows why I even care enough to say anything, _but_ ,” Her pretty face went solemn. “if you want to survive longer than a day here, you would do well _not_ to mention Robb Stark in these castle walls.”

Sansa blinked in surprise. “Is he-“

Margaery glared. “ _Don’t_. I’ve already said more than I should have.”

Sansa was taken aback. Lady Margaery seemed like a completely different person than the woman who had been in the Throne Room, moments ago, bouncing around with a cheerful smile. She didn’t seem to care much for Sansa, and her severe look, shut Sansa up. If her cheek was evidence enough, it was clear that the topic of Robb Stark was taboo.

“Now, I’ve got other things to attend to. Every night the family dines together. See to it that you’re cleaned up and presentable for it.”

“Will Jaehaerys be there?” Sansa found herself asking.

Margaery shrugged, tossing a brown curl behind her shoulder. “He tends to be. Sometimes he’s busy with his work, other times he’ll deign to make an appearance. He’s an important man.” Her dry tone suggested that she thought otherwise. “Do you have any other inane questions for me?”

She shook her head.

Margaery nodded, satisfied. “Don’t forget. Dinner is served at seven o’clock, sharp. The guard stationed outside your room, will escort you, once you’re ready.”

And then she was gone, rose scent and all.

* * *

Admittedly, the suite _was_ lavish. Though, Sansa, thought bitterly, anything would have been a step up from the concrete prison that had been her home for the past few months. Still, the suite was nicer than even the guest room she had been given, when the Starks had first come to King’s Landing as guests.

 _“I love it!” Sansa had squealed with delight._ “ _Everything about the South is so luxurious and modern.” She sighed, dreamily_.

_“Don’t get too comfortable, dear. We’re not staying for very long” Catelyn Stark gazed out the window. Her parent’s room offered a view of the bay. The glittering, sun-bathed scenery was a welcome change of view from Winterfell’s constant snow. “Your father just has to sort out his business with King Rhaegar, and then we’ll be off.”_

_"_ _I know, I know.” Sansa huffed. “You should remind Robb. I already saw him chatting up several girls. He’s probably talking up Lady Margaery as we speak.” Robb had made it plain to Sansa that he intended to have his fun while in King’s Landing. He’d been ecstatic when Father had announced that Robb and her, could accompany their parents down South._

_Catelyn Stark shook her head. “I’ll let him enjoy his freedom for now. Now dear Sansa,” She turned to beam at her daughter. “What shall we do today?”_

Sansa heaved in a deep breath, trying not to dwell too much on the pain of past memories. Perhaps a bath would clear her mind. Decisively, Sansa made her way to the bathroom and stripped off her dirty clothes. She tossed in a fragrant sachet into the tub and soon, the air swirled with a lovely mixture of scents as the tub filled with steaming water. It was heavenly, slipping into the water.

She spent nearly an hour in the water, scrubbing her skin raw of all the accumulated grime and luxuriating in the warmth. Her fingers and toes were wrinkled and pruny by the time she dragged her body out of the tub. She wrapped herself up in a bathrobe and stared at her reflection for a moment.

Sansa had always been vain to some degree. How could she not be? As Princess of Winterfell, her appearance was always carefully curated, built to withstand the criticism at Northern court, and to ensure admiration from the lesser ladies and lords. She’d been told only a hundred times of her beauty, and of her strong resemblance to her, now, late mother. It was hard to see the resemblance, now, to either her mother or the girl Sansa used to be. Her face had lost her roundness, and dark circles marred her pale complexion, as the consequence of sleepless nights in her prison cell. Sansa huffed out, angrily, her forearm coming up to wipe at the fogged-up mirror.

This was no time for such superficial thoughts. She had to find out what had happened to Robb, what was going to happen to her, and what it all meant for the North.

By now, the Northern Kingdom was no longer under Stark rule. All the male heirs had been captured or killed, so it was reasonable to assume that the Targaryens had been successful in merging the two kingdoms, after her parents’ deaths. _So why now?_ Why had King Rhaegar decided she was to marry Jaehaerys? He could have simply killed her. It would have made infinitely more sense to do so. What was there to gain from their marriage?

A sharp knock came out at the door, breaking Sansa from her thoughts. She walked to the bedroom door, and opened it, to reveal a mousy-looking brunette. She had wide green eyes, which lit up as she caught sight of Sansa.

“Ma’am, the Lady Margaery sent me to deliver these.” In her arms, were several dresses, all of different colors, and Sansa could already see the low necklines on them.

“Oh, of course.” Sansa gestured to the bed. “You can leave them there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl moved quickly, and then pulled a tube from the pockets of her dress. “This is the ointment, Pycelle gave me, as well.” Her eyes flitted to Sansa’s face, “For your cheek.”

“Thank you.” Sansa nodded, gratefully. The servant girl left, though not without casting a curious glance, over her shoulder, before she scurried away. Sansa wondered if what had happened to Robb was common knowledge among the servants. Margaery had been insistent on never mentioning Robb, but, perhaps she could find a loose-tongued servant somewhere in this castle.

She turned her attention to the dresses on the bed. Most of them were too revealing, for Sansa’s taste. She was used to the Northern styles and longed for one of her old dresses. However, the fabric of Margaery’s dresses was undoubtedly finer than what she was used to, and Sansa ran her hand over them, in awe.

Eventually, she chose a midnight blue gown, with fabric that crisscrossed in the front, emphasizing the waist. The lines of the dress were embroidered in gold, and though it was meant fit snugly on her shoulders, it fit, slightly lower, due to her smaller figure.

Then, there was the matter of her hair. She remembered attempting the intricate braids that were so popular in the South, but she’d never mastered it, her arms always hurting from reaching back, that she’d given up trying. She supposed a Southern style would have matched better with the gown, but it was out of her abilities, and she had no servant girl to help her with it. So, Sansa, gathered her hair, and twisted it into the familiar Northern style, a simple braid that flowed from the crown of her head, to her bosom, where the braid ended.

She assessed her reflection. It wasn’t much, but the braid did make her feel more like the old Sansa. And that was enough, for now.

* * *

True to Margaery’s words, when the time came, the guard knocked on her door, and prepared to lead her to the dining hall. She was glad it was not Trant, but a sandy-haired guard who barely looked at her and acted as though this was the most mind-numbing task he could have been given.

The dining hall was in the same wing as the throne room and featured the same dark wood and heavy black curtains that allowed for the only light in the room to be cast from the fireplace and the few dozen candles that were scattered about the main table.

Everyone had already arrived, and they all turned to stare at Sansa as she entered.

Around the dining table, sat the Targaryen family. Of course, at the head, was the Mad King. To his right, sat a woman of ethereal-like beauty. Sansa recognized her immediately. _Daenerys Targaryen._ She was the king’s cousin, who lived lavishly, always in the finest silks and draped in glittering jewels.

To the king’s left sat the heir, Aegon Targaryen. He was just as startlingly pretty as she remembered, with his long silver hair and charming smile. And to Aegon’s left, sat Margaery, whose gaze flickered immediately to the gown. She gave a small nod of approval.

“A beautiful gown, Lady Sansa.” Aegon winked. “I think I like it better on you, than on my own wife.”

“Don’t be crass, dear Aegon.”

Daenerys’ violet eyes found Sansa, cold and assessing. “So, you are Eddard’s daughter.” She was unimpressed.

Sansa couldn’t care less. She realized with a start that one Targaryen was noticeably absent.

“Sansa!” Rhaegar called to her. “Jaehaerys was meant to be at dinner. It looks like he’s still on his patrols. You’ll have to forgive his absence.” She gave a tiny exhale, hidden as she curtsied deeply. The prospect of meeting her future husband still unnerved her.

“Come, sit next to Daenerys.” Sansa did so, obediently. On the table were heaps of food, delicacies, that she’d never even seen, let alone could have dreamed of, and her stomach let out an involuntary grumble. Daenerys must have heard it, for she spared her a pitiful side-glance.

Sansa tried her best to pace herself, and not to appear over-eager as she ate. It was difficult not to eat greedily after months of nothing but stale bread. She stopped occasionally to sip at her mulled wine. The sweetness was addicting, and the alcohol helped to soothe her nerves.

“Tell me, dear, Sansa.” Sansa startled, as Daenerys directly addressed her. The family had been content to ignore her presence, up till now, discussing matters of state. It had not bothered her as she was content to give her full attention to the meal in front of her.

“Yes?” Sansa swallowed a mouthful of roasted vegetables.

“Which servant did your hair tonight? We must re-assign her immediately. To have done such a simple braid, well, it speaks to their lack of abilities, does it not?” Sansa caught Margaery’s gaze, which had hardened, imperceptibly so.

“Oh,” Sansa flushed. From the alcohol or her embarrassment, she did not know. “I did my own hair, Lady Daenerys. It’s a-“ she meant to finish with ‘ _a popular style in the North’,_ but decided against it. She did not feel like getting hit a second time. She had no clue as to what could trigger the King’s temper. “It’s all I was taught how to do.”

Aegon let out a snicker. “Oh, goodness, Dany. Don’t go embarrassing our guest, like that!” He grinned at Sansa. Perhaps it was meant as a friendly gesture, but it only served to make her more nervous. She didn’t like his smile. “We can give her a maid, can’t we, father? After all, she must represent House Targaryen, properly. The wedding is only a week away.”

 _A week?_ Sansa gripped her knife, tightly. The Targaryens were not wasting any time.

The King shrugged, taking a swig of his own wine. “Very well. Margaery give her one of yours, yes?”

“Of course.” Margaery inclined her head. “I think Jeyne would be a good fit for her.”

“Jeyne! Yes, give her to Sansa.” Aegon nodded eagerly. “She’s so _plain_.” He made a face. “The less I see of her in our chambers, the better. I much prefer Bridgette, anyways.”

“We should get dear Sansa her own set of dresses as well.” Daenerys pressed. “This is your dress, Margaery? They’re quite ill-fitting on her. And so old-fashioned too.” Sansa smiled tightly. Was the king’s cousin bent on embarrassing her for the rest of the night? Sansa imagined taking her cup of wine and splashing it over Daenerys’ gown. It was a satisfying fantasy.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lady Daenerys. It means so much to me, how much you care.” Sansa beamed, infusing as much false warmth in her words, as she could manage. “I cannot wait for us to be family.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Daenerys’ façade slipped as she scowled darkly. “ _Family?_ You think because you are marrying a bastard of House Targaryen, you will be family?”

“Oh, _here_ we go.” Aegon hummed, his brows raised. “Come on, Dany. Let’s have a nice dinner. Sansa didn’t mean anything by that. Did you, nice girl?”

“Of course not.” Sansa amended. It was like walking in a mine-field, being in this castle. The slightest thing set off these Targaryens. “I apologize if that was out of line, Lady Daenerys.”

It was a painful moment, before Daenerys spoke. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, violet eyes flickering to meet Sansa’s. “It’s not as though we’ll have to deal with you for long-”

“That’s _enough_!” Rhaegar silenced the entire table, with a hard slam of his fist.

Sansa’s heart beat wildly, certain that it would be any minute before Rhaegar would call for a guard to punish her. It never came, however. The King glared at Daenerys. He was angry with _her._ She’d said something she shouldn’t have.

Sansa’s mind raced, what _had_ she meant by that? Were they planning to kill her once she was wed to Jaehaerys? If so, then what was the purpose of the marriage to begin with? _What were they plotting?_

There was not much time to ruminate, for there was an intrusion, as the doors of the dining hall slammed open.

All 5 gazes snapped towards the door, but Sansa was quite sure that she was the only one at the table who was seconds away from being ill at the sight of Jaehaerys Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update: friday or earlier
> 
> hope u guys enjoyed !! truly appreciate each and every one of u that read this!
> 
> sansa's dress for reference: https://ibb.co/g73nqcv


	2. ruminations, and a revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, this story does NOT take place in the canon universe, nor is it a divergence from canon. This takes place in an entirely different AU where there are only 2 kingdoms (North and South) that have been in contention for a while but existed independently in fragile peace until Rhaegar Targaryen killed Eddard and Catelyn Stark, effectively conquering the Northern Kingdom. 
> 
> (Also, these northern and southern kingdoms are in close proximity, because 1) i can, since it's an AU 2) plot convenience reasons lmao)
> 
> Thank you guys for giving this story a chance! I hope this clarifies things!

He looked devastatingly Northern.

Sansa’s throat constricted. It wasn’t as though it was her first time seeing him, but it was certainly cruel, having this man’s appearance remind her so much of home, and yet, be the furthest thing away from the safety and comfort his very appearance seemed to promise. His crimson and charcoal uniform was a jarring reminder of his true loyalties.

Still, she couldn’t help but make comparisons. His dark beard and the way his curls were tied back, reminded her distinctly of her late father. Even the way his grey eyes narrowed as he surveyed the room, reminded her, oddly of Arya.

Jaehaerys barely spared her a glance, moving past to greet his father, kneeling before him. “Your grace.” He murmured lowly.

“Stand, my son.” There was clear adoration in the king’s voice. Sansa observed the two with curiosity. Bastards were typically hidden out of sight in court, it was odd that Jaehaerys held such a prominent position in his father’s kingdom. Rhaegar had gone so far as to legitimize him. Her expression darkened, with a thought coming to mind. If King Rhaegar favored Jaehaerys so, then perhaps the bastard took after his father closely. Her cheek faintly stung, a mocking reminder.

“Did you eat?” Rhaegar inquired after him.

“I did. We stopped by a bar in town before coming here.”

“Then at least enjoy another drink, brother!” Aegon crowed, obnoxiously loud. He stood up to hand his brother a glass of liquor. His handsome face quirked into a mischievous expression. “Anything exciting to report?”

“Nothing of interest.” Jaehaerys answered, shortly. He took the glass and downed it promptly. Sansa deflated, wanting to glean any bit of information from outside the castle walls. It was then, that his gaze flickered over to Sansa, “Who’s this?”

Sansa cared little if he found her suitable, but the mere fact that he did not even _recognize_ her, a former princess of Winterfell, who had been welcomed months ago to his home as an honored guest was undignified. She bristled, squaring her shoulders.

“Sansa Stark, your Highness.” She could not help the iciness in her tone. His grey eyes shifted with indecipherable emotion, and then it was gone. “We met months ago, before my imprisonment.”

“I meet many people.” Jaehaerys shrugged. He considered her. “Perhaps, I found you dull and unmemorable at the time.”

 _Dull and unmemorable?_ Sansa’s cheeks burned. She had not expected any kindness from the bastard prince, but his callous behavior stung all the same.

“Jaehaerys.” The King chided. “That’s no way to treat your future bride.” There was no real bite to his tone. In fact, he was still smiling at the prince.

“I agreed to marry her as you wished, father.” Jaehaerys retorted, flatly. “But, I made no promises about my behavior. A mutt should be reminded of her place from time to time.”

Margaery, across the table, coughed delicately into her sleeve, looking away, pointedly. From her periphery, she saw Daenerys’ lips lift.

That was _it._ Sansa had half a mind to throw her cutlery at the prince. Beside her fork, her hand twitched in anticipation.

But she could not retaliate, and from his smug smirk, he knew it. She was a prisoner here. Jaehaerys could say anything he damn well pleased, and she was expected to take it with a gracious smile. Sansa’s jaw clenched tightly. She placed her hand in her lap.

“ _There_ he is,” Aegon’s head tilted back with uproarious laughter. “Always such a charmer, Jaehaerys. It’s a wonder you’re not more popular with the ladies. Although,” A Cheshire-like grin spread over his handsome face. “Some of us here _do_ like his brooding ways, hm, _Daenerys_?”

Sansa’s gaze snapped over to Daenerys, who had been sitting silently, till now. Her pretty face hardened, and her pink lips twisted into a snarl. “Shut the _fuck_ up, Aegon _._ ” Her neck was flushed red.

Aegon obliged her, but the shit-eating grin remained on his face.

Jaehaerys was unbothered by the exchange. He placed his empty glass on the table. “I’ll retire for the night.”

“So soon?” Rhaegar frowned.

“Today’s patrol was tiring.” Jaehaerys tugged at his cloak, carelessly. “I’ll see to Rhaenys.”

Sansa’s curiosity flared to life, despite her still-simmering anger towards the prince. _How could she have forgotten?_ The sole Targaryen daughter, and any mention of her had been strangely absent. Her mother had said Rhaenys Targaryen had always been weak of heart and had long struggled with a chronic illness. Rhaenys had never once made an appearance throughout her stay in King’s Landing. Sansa assumed she had been confined to bed rest and hadn’t thought much further about the girl.

None of the other family members reacted to the mention of Rhaenys. The King only nodded. “Very well.”

Jaehaerys strode out of the room, without so much as a second glance toward Sansa’s way.

When the doors closed, Sansa felt as though she could breathe again.

“If you’re curious, dear Sansa.” Aegon spoke. “Yes, he’s always been that dour. I think he emerged from his mother’s womb with a frown. Or so the legend goes. Perhaps marriage will make him a changed man, hm?”

Sansa schooled her expression. She was quite tired of listening to Aegon Targaryen speak. “Of course. I will endeavor to make a good wife for the prince.”

“ _Well_ ,” Margaery chirped, clearly trying to break the tense atmosphere. “Does anyone care for dessert? The cook tells me there’s a lovely pie baking in the oven.”

Sansa stared resolutely ahead _,_ picking up her fork to resume eating. She wished she’d thrown the fork at Jaehaerys, after all.

* * *

_“Mother and father will be executed in the morning, Sansa.” Robb was pale. “It was all a trap. Rhaegar’s been planning this for months.”_

_Sansa shook her head and pushed him away. “No! They can’t-they can’t do that. Father’s men won’t stand for it. They’ll never accept Rhaegar as king. They’ll fight for father, I know it.” None of this made sense. She grasped for logic. “They’ll come in the morning, and demand for father and mother to be released.”_

_Robb grabbed her by the shoulders. “Sansa, you’re not listening to me. No one is coming for us. I’ve seen the documents. He’s framed father on these charges, the bannermen don’t know what the truth is. Once father dies, they’ll make it so we can’t rule either. W-we’ll be dead next.”_

_He was scared. She'd never seen Robb scared._

_“What about Bran, Rickon, and Arya?” Bile rose in her throat. “They’re in Winterfell. They’ll be safe, right? There’s soldiers there that will-“_

_“Sansa.” Robb’s voice was hoarse._

_“They’ll be dead as well.”_

Sansa awoke the next morning with a start.

“Good morning, Lady Sansa.” Lady Margaery’s distinctly melodic voice carried into the air.

She hadn’t slept well, with memories of Robb plaguing her dreams. Despite the welcome change of bedding from the prison cell, it was difficult to rest with all her anxieties twisting and turning in her stomach.

It seemed Margaery, though, had slept fitfully, for she was flitting about Sansa’s room with unbridled energy, moving the curtains aside so that an inordinate amount of sunshine flooded the room.

She fussed with Sansa’s hair, and demanded she change into an emerald gown that featured Margaery’s signature low neckline and a slit in the skirt. Thankfully, the bottom was not as form-fitting as the top, and so the slit was not as scandalous as she feared, but Sansa was certain that she would be pulling at the chest portion all day, to make sure there would be no incident.

“Jeyne will be with you, tomorrow.” Margaery informed her, staring critically at Sansa’s reflection. If she was satisfied with what she saw, she did not say. “She had to finish up some errands for me today, but I’ve told her that she’s to see after you, from here on out.”

Sansa nodded, listlessly.

“Anyways, a few days of the week, it’s customary for me to be hold court with the other noble men and women in the drawing room.”

“I see,” Sansa nodded once more. Margaery looked at her expectantly. “ _Oh_ ,” Sansa straightened with a start. “Am I to come with you?”

“No, I just like to announce my itinerary to those who will listen. “Margaery rolled her eyes. “Yes, you’re to come with me. As a future wife of House Targaryen, you’re expected to join us in court. I didn’t spend my morning playing dress-up with you, just because I wanted to torture myself.”

She patted Sansa’s hair, softly. An odd contrast to her barbed words. “Now, come.”

The drawing room was back in the main wing of the castle. When they entered, all eyes had been on them. Sansa heard whispers of ‘Stark’ go up into the air, but thankfully, there had been no glares or insults. Sansa surmised it had to do with her new status as fiancée to the bastard prince. She stood silently by Margaery as the brunette received multiple lords and ladies with incomparable charm and ease.

Sansa had seen this side of her before, back when she’d first seen her in court, and when Margaery had bounded up the steps to kiss Rhaegar Targaryen on the cheek. This Margaery could make the sternest man blush with her honeyed words and delicate laugh. Several people sidled up to speak with her, and they all left, half-in-love with her.

It was a stark difference from how Margaery personally spoke with Sansa. The Margaery who spoke to Sansa was aloof, and couldn’t be bothered with niceties, but this Margaery spoke endlessly and with flourish. Sansa presumed that Margaery didn’t see any purpose in putting on a façade in front of her. There was nothing to gain from her. After all, Sansa was nothing more than a glorified prisoner that Rhaegar had tasked Margaery to look after.

“Lady Sansa,” Margaery roused her from her musings. “This is the Lord Varys.”

Sansa blinked, finding a bald man in front of her. He was smiling widely at her. That was odd. Most of the lords and ladies so far had only glanced in her direction, as though scared that if they looked too long, a wolf might appear.

“ _Ah_ ,” he greeted her, with a warm shake of his hand. “So, this is the famed Sansa Stark.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Sansa smiled, politely. Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. As if being a known prisoner of House Targaryen counted as ‘famed’ these days.

“I have heard of your engagement to Prince Jaehaerys. Congratulations are in order! He’s an admired fellow. No doubt, you’ve stirred the jealousy of some of the women here.” He winked.

Sansa suppressed a grimace. Perhaps most of the women had only been able to admire the prince from afar. For surely if they had even a moment of conversation with Jaehaerys, they would know how brutish he was. “I anxiously await the wedding.” Sansa replied. _That was partially true._

“I look forward to attending the ceremony. Perhaps we can speak again, do not be a stranger, Lady Sansa.” He spoke earnestly. “Good day, Lady Margaery. Beautiful as ever, of course.”

Margaery gave a pleased giggle, as though it wasn’t the twentieth time, she had been complimented today.

There was a slight lull in people wishing to greet Margaery. But it was broken sharply by a high-pitched squeal. Sansa frowned, looking over to see a woman with blonde curls and a chest that looked to have been _squeezed_ into her form-fitting dress. She had to be seconds away from passing out.

“Margaery, darling!” The woman looked over-the-moon.

“Oh, good _god_.” Margaery muttered under her breath. Sansa glanced over, amused. It was like watching a chameleon shift colors to match the surrounding foliage, the way her expression morphed from slight vexation to one of serene delight. “Lady Hayford! Dear, you look _stunning_ in that dress! Where can I get one just like it?”

Lady Hayford was a highborn woman of a lesser house, and she hung on Margaery’s every word. The Tyrell woman had her eating out of her palm. It was mildly pathetic, Sansa observed. However, Lady Hayford was harmless, if only, stunningly naïve, and she seemed genuinely delighted to meet Sansa.

“It is truly great that the North and South are one now, Lady Sansa.” Lady Hayford had nodded, emphatically. “King Rhaegar will lead us all into a bright future.” Sansa could only blink in response while Margaery had steered the conversation elsewhere.

“I’ve started painting again, Lady Hayford. Perhaps I shall make a portrait of you.”

The blonde woman gasped. “Would you? Oh Lady Sansa, have you seen Lady Margaery’s work? It is _unparalleled_.” Lady Margaery could shit, and Lady Hayford would declare it ‘unparalleled’. Sansa kept that thought to herself.

Instead, she shook her head. “No, I did not know that Lady Margaery had artistic inclinations.”

Lady Hayford took great affront to that. She pulled Sansa, towards the south end of the drawing room where a framed painting was displayed.

“This one is my _favorite_.” Lady Hayford gushed. “Lady Margaery’s captured the Targaryen family with such great care, the likeness is truly startling. It was a gift to the King, and you should have seen him, dear Sansa, he loved it so.”

Sansa studied the artwork closely. Margaery Tyrell was a talented artist, there was no denying it. It was a large canvas, so she could only imagine how much time had been put into the piece. There was a great amount of detail put into recreating each family member’s image, from the curve of their lips, to the precise stitching of their clothing.

Her eyes unconsciously trailed over to Margaery’s likeness of Jaehaerys. She had captured his broad shoulders and surly expression well. In the photo, his dark curls were longer, and hung about his face, not in the bun that she had seen him recently with. It made him look younger.

“He _is_ a handsome fellow.” Lady Hayford’s playfully chimed in, noticing Sansa’s gaze.

“Oh,” Sansa backed away. “No, I wasn’t- I mean, he is handsome.” She amended, not wanting to seem as though she was outright insulting her future husband. “I was only thinking, it looks exactly like him.” She blathered on, looking to Margaery. “It’s a wonderful talent you have.”

Margaery’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Lady Sansa.”

“But, these two,” Sansa blinked in surprise, noticing two unfamiliar figures in the painting. They were both darker in complexion with lovely, raven-colored hair, so similar in looks that they had to be mother and daughter.

“Elia Martell and Rhaenys Targaryen.” Margaery supplied. “Elia, of course, passed away years ago, but I had painted her in with the rest of her family. Her children seemed to appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course, they did.” Lady Hayford nodded, eagerly. “There wasn’t a soul in the castle who didn’t love Elia Martell with all their heart.”

 _Perhaps there was one soul_. Sansa thought with a curl of her lip, her gaze flickering to Rhaegar’s likeness.

“It’s too bad about Rhaenys. Inheriting her mother’s penchant for illness and all.” Lady Hayford _tsked_. “Such a pretty girl, but we hardly get to see her! I miss her dearly.”

Sansa got the impression that Lady Hayford had had one or two conversations with Rhaenys in the past but was certain that that qualified her to ‘miss her dearly’.

“Of course, Lady Hayford.” Margaery smiled demurely. “We all miss seeing her. My husband assures me she is getting stronger by the day. I pray that she will be able to join us in court soon.”

“Lady Sansa?” A gruff voice came, suddenly, from behind the three women.

Sansa turned around, surprised to see not another lord, but a guard. The sight of his uniform filled her with unease.

“Please come with me. I am to take you to Prince Jaehaerys’ suite.”

* * *

Sansa fully expected the worst, being summoned to the prince’s personal chambers. Was he upset with how she had spoken last night and was aiming to discipline her now? Would he have the guards punish her, or take it upon himself to dole out her punishment? She oscillated between fear and fury, as she followed the guard down the halls, palms sweaty with apprehension.

The guard stopped in front of a door and knocked rapidly. “Prince Jaehaerys. I’ve brought Lady Sansa, as requested.”

“Good.” Came the short response. “Send her in.”

The guard looked down at her and nodded towards the door. She bit down on her lower lip, wanting so badly to sprint away. But she knew she would only get in two steps before the guard would snatch her up and place her right outside of Jaehaerys’ door, again.

Sansa entered, her steps small and timid.

“Unless you’re planning on taking an hour to reach the center of the room, I suggest you hurry.” Jaehaerys stood by a wooden desk, watching her with an unimpressed frown. He was dressed less formally, than the day before, his general’s uniform replaced by a simple white dress shirt and tailored pants.

A cough came from the other corner of the room, startling her. They weren’t alone.

Several feet away stood a graying man, wearing a brown dress coat, that was worn and faded. She let out an exhale, grateful to see another person.

“This is Pycelle.” Jaehaerys extended a hand, gesturing in the older man’s direction. “He’s the castle physician.” Sansa nodded in greeting. “He’s to examine you. The King requested it.”

“Examine me?” _So he wasn’t going to punish her?_

“You were imprisoned for a few months.” The physician explained, as though she needed reminding. “The conditions could not have been- _optimal_ for your health. I’d like to get an idea of your general well-being. We only want to ensure you are in the best condition possible for your wedding.”

Sansa didn’t suppose she had much of a choice in the matter, but she nodded, anyways. It made her feel better to at least pretend she had a shred of autonomy.

“Good. Up on the chaise then.” She followed his direction. Pycelle got to work, opening his bag, and taking all sorts of equipment out, before he began poking and prodding at her. He listened to her breathing, grasped her wrist to take her pulse, and shone a light into her eyes, leaning forward to inspect her carefully. He worked quickly and with precision.

All the while, Sansa was distracted by Jaehaerys in the background. He wasn’t watching. Rather, at the start of her exam, he had sat down at the desk, with his back towards Pycelle and Sansa, writing with great focus. She distantly wondered, where he had gone the night before. What were these so-called patrols he was always off on?

Her eyes narrowed at his back, feeling some sort of petty satisfaction in giving him a mean stare, though her victim was unaware.

It was a while before Pycelle stood back. “I think we’re just about finished, your Highness.” He announced.

Jaehaerys took a few moments to finish his writing, before he stood to face them. “How is she?”

“Considering her poor diet for the past few months and overall _circumstances_ , she’s as healthy as we could have hoped.” Pycelle nodded. “She seems to be a tad underweight, but it’s nothing a full and balanced diet can’t fix. Then there’s the matter of her exercise.” Sansa arched a brow. “She would benefit from getting some air and sunshine for at least an hour per day. It would help to build up her overall muscle tone and get some color back in her face.”

“That can be arranged.” Jaehaerys replied. “Nothing else?”

“No. I don’t anticipate having any issues in the future as well. She’s an excellent choice for a wife.” He reported cheerily.

Sansa shot Pycelle a resentful look. It went unnoticed as the physician was fixated on the prince.

“Very well. You can leave now.” Jaehaerys waved him away. Pycelle bowed and departed swiftly, leaving Sansa alone with the bastard prince.

The room was still and silent. Sansa’s gaze flickered to the door, longingly, before meeting the prince’s dark stare.

He was impossible to read. There was nothing she could glean from his flat, apathetic expression. She didn’t wish for him to be angry, but at least she could _read_ anger. From last night, she gathered Jaehaerys thought of her as a nuisance, one that had been thrust upon him, by his father. He had not wanted this any more than she had. Still, in their union, he would hold all the power.

“You seem nervous.” Jaehaerys pulled a cigarette from the drawer of his desk. He lit it easily and glanced back over at her. “Do I make you nervous?”

Sansa’s stiffened. “I get the impression,” She replied slowly, carefully choosing her words. “that you think very little of me. And that makes me nervous.” It was her first honest answer since she’d been released from the cells.

He made a noise, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “A simple yes would have sufficed.” Jaehaerys strode over, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. Her fingers clenched at the folds of her dress, as he advanced.

Jaehaerys noticed her tensed posture, his grey eyes flickering down to her hands. His brow furrowed. “You’re rather skittish.”

“And do you blame me?” Sansa blurted out, her frustration peaking. “At any moment you or your father gets to decide if I get slapped around-”

Sansa caught herself too late. She clamped her mouth shut and looked away, with a sinking feeling. _It was the worst thing she could have done, blowing up like that._ “I-I didn’t mean, that was out of line, your Highness-“

“Is that what happened?” Jaehaerys interrupted her. His voice was eerily calm, and the way he held her gaze unnerved her. When she blinked in confusion, he further elaborated. “Your cheek. I noticed it yesterday.”

Sansa flinched. She’d nearly forgotten about the slap Trant had gifted her. The ointment had soothed the prickling but had done little to hide the redness of the skin. She hesitated to tell him fully what had transpired. For all she knew, the bastard prince could blow up at the mention of Robb Stark, just as his father did.

“I was insolent to the king.” She replied, hollowly.

Jaehaerys considered her for a moment. He leaned back. “He got angry and had a guard punish you, right?” There was a knowing glint in his eyes. “Which one was it? Thorne? Trant?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Trant. It was Trant.” She wouldn't soon forget the man’s ugly glower.

“Thought so.” Jaehaerys chuckled darkly. “Trant enjoys it best.” He paused for a moment. “What did you say to the King?”

Reluctantly, she told the truth. “I-I asked after my brother.” Sansa replied softly. “I only wanted to ask if he was still imprisoned.”

Jaehaerys was silent. He took another drag of his cigarette. The smoke encircled his dark curls. “ _Huh_. You really don’t know, then. I thought you would have heard, even down in the cells.”

“Heard _what_?” Sansa’s stomach twisted with dread, prepared for the worst.

“Your brother is no longer in King’s Landing.” Jaehaerys shrugged, his manner relaxed, as though he were only commenting on the weather.

“He escaped the cells 2 months ago, just before we planned to execute him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update: next friday (june 5th) or earlier
> 
> so um WOW i am blown away by the kind response to this story!! i am thankful for all of you guys who gave this story a chance. hope you enjoyed this latest installment !! :)


	3. the binds have tightened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, this story does NOT take place in the canon universe, nor is it a divergence from canon. This takes place in an entirely different AU where there are only 2 kingdoms (North and South) that have been in contention for a while but existed independently in fragile peace until Rhaegar Targaryen killed Eddard and Catelyn Stark, effectively conquering the Northern Kingdom. 
> 
> (Also, these northern and southern kingdoms are in close proximity, because 1) i can, since it's an AU 2) plot convenience reasons lmao)
> 
> Thank you guys for giving this story a chance! I hope this clarifies things!

_Robb had escaped._

_He’d escaped._

_He was alive._

She’d held onto that hope for so long, but to finally have confirmation filled her with crushing relief. When she returned to her suite, after learning of Robb’s fate, she had wept for hours with the knowledge that she was not alone. She was not the last of wolves, as she had feared.

Over the next few days, courage bloomed in her chest, unfurling rapidly, and filled her with a sense of determination. If Robb had managed to survive, then she would endeavor to survive as well. They were Starks, always stronger together, and one day, what remained of their pack would be reunited under the Northern moon.

Though that hope gave her a hardened resolve, the fact remained that it would be nigh impossible to escape King’s Landing on her own. Even if she were to manage the journey alone, she had no place to go. The Targaryen soldiers occupied Winterfell. Robb had to be hiding somewhere, but she had no way of knowing where in the vast North he could be safe.

This new uncertainty kept her up at night. Was Robb planning on freeing her? _He had to be_. He would not leave her here with these dragons. She had to have faith in her older brother. The Targaryens wanted her weak and desperate. They were counting on her to lose hope. She would not give them that satisfaction.

For now, she would stay strong in King’s Landing. That was the least she could do for Robb.

It helped that she hardly had time to sink into despondency. She was kept busy. Margaery was always whisking her away to play nice at court. Sansa hadn’t seen much of Jaehaerys since he had casually informed her of her brother’s survival. He was gone often on patrols. One time he had been absent for three days straight. If he did return, it was always late and past dinner.

Sansa had also acquired a perpetual shadow in the form of Jeyne Poole.

Handed down to her from Margaery, Jeyne was a bright girl, closer to Arya’s age. She was talented in braiding hair and stating her unfiltered opinion, regardless if Sansa asked for it or not.

Sansa would often spend her days cooped up in her room with a book or with her sewing and Jeyne would watch pensively from a distance away, nothing else to do but to stare upon her lady.

“M’lady, If I may voice my concerns.”

“You may.” Sansa allowed it, already knowing she would come to regret it.

“You should take a turn in the garden. I was told you were to get an hour’s worth every day.”

Sansa snapped her book shut. “By _who_?” It could only be Pycelle or Jaehaerys.

Jeyne was unruffled. “By his royal Highness. He instructed me to look after you, before he left this morning.”

“Well,” Sansa shut her book. It was mildly surprising that the bastard prince had interfered in such a way. “I did plenty of walking earlier what with Lady Hayford pulling me every which way in court.”

“He stressed _fresh_ air, m’lady.”

Sansa had no desire to be outside. Rhaegar had assigned Trant of all people in her guard service. It was a surely a means of intimidation. She’d seen him lurking outside her bedroom, as he stood watch. Going outside meant Trant would be one of the men to escort her, and she did not trust him or his proclivity for violence. Though her first cheek wound had disappeared to a slight pink, she did not fancy getting a matching wound.

“I will consider your words for the future.” Sansa re-opened her book, trying to focus on the words before her. “Perhaps when the weather is better.”

She pointedly ignored the bright rays of sunshine beaming from the window.

* * *

Then, of course, there was the matter of wedding preparations.

As the wedding drew close, Lady Daenerys had placed herself in charge of overseeing the wedding gown, much to Sansa’s chagrin. The Targaryen woman found great sport in throwing insults and jabs Sansa’s way. Sansa suspected it had much to do with the rumors she had heard in court.

It had not taken long for whispers of Daenerys and Jaehaerys’ past relationship to reach her ears. The women at court were loose-lipped and more than delighted to share what they knew once Lady Margaery’s back was turned.

“Well, they were always rather _close_.” One lady had tittered. “I heard from a soldier that Lady Daenerys was _furious_ when King Rhaegar told her of his plans to marry you to Jaehaerys. I’m sure he would not disrespect you as such to continue such a relationship, but there _were_ some who thought they would have been married, if not for you.”

The lady’s comments had taken her aback, but it was not entirely unbelievable. Sansa recalled Aegon’s comment during the first dinner which _had_ alluded to a relationship between the two.

_“Some of us here do like his brooding ways, hm, Daenerys?”_

She couldn’t imagine the taciturn prince holding any sort of warmth or affection, but Lady Daenerys _was_ the sort of beauty that no man, regardless of his temperament, could resist.

It burned at her. Not for any jealousy she held in want of Jaehaerys’ affections. Jaehaerys could fall on his sword in battle for all she cared. But she despised the way the ladies in court held barely concealed expressions of faux pity. She further despised the way that Daenerys treated her, in retaliation of an engagement that she had no part in choosing.

“Oh goodness, you’ve gained weight, I think.” Daenerys mused during Sansa’s final gown fitting. The dress was only slightly tighter around her arms, but it was bound to have happened. She’d suddenly gone from eating scraps to 3 meals a day. Daenerys looked less than pleased with the change, however.

“The physician instructed me to, Lady Daenerys. He said I was underweight.” Sansa retorted, frostily. Margaery, who had accompanied the two to the castle’s tailor, threw Sansa a warning look.

“Yes, well,” Daenerys frowned as she further inspected Sansa’s flaws. “Nothing we can do about it, now. The wedding is nearly here. How should her hair be styled, dear Margaery?”

“I think a braided updo will go nicely with the dress.” Margaery suggested. “If her hair is down, it will take away from the embroidered neckline.”

Daenerys came closer, running her long fingers through Sansa’s red tendrils. She tried not to flinch, but her touch sent a shiver down her spine, regardless. “Hm. I agree, it would be a shame not to show off the handiwork.”

Then, she grasped a section of her hair. Sansa winced. It felt tighter than what was needed. “Jaehaerys tells me you heard what happened with Robb.”

Margaery’s gaze snapped towards Sansa. Her green eyes were bright with fury. Though she kept silent, her expression clearly demanded to know why Sansa had not kept silent as she had instructed.

It wasn’t as though she willingly brought up the topic, Sansa fumed. _Jaehaerys_ had been the one to inquire, and he himself, had willingly volunteered information of Robb’s escape from prison. Surprisingly, out of all his family members, he had been the most forthcoming.

“It’s only a matter of time before the patrols find Robb or Arya.” Daenerys silky, smug voice came. “A lone wolf can only survive for so long before they are hunted down.”

 _The patrols._ Sansa’s heart sped up. So _that’s_ what kept Jaehaerys busy.

_He was hunting for her siblings._

“One has to wonder how your brother could leave you behind like this.” Sansa looked up sharply, catching Daenerys’ smirk. “Don’t you think, if he managed to escape, he could have helped you as well?”

Doubt crept over Sansa. The thought _had_ crossed her mind. Robb couldn’t have just escaped out of sheer luck and on his own. As members of the Stark family, they had been under heavy protection while in the cells. Robb’s escape hadn’t just _happened_. Which meant there had to have been a plan, a plan that clearly had not included Sansa’s own escape. She’d been left behind, and Daenerys knew it.

Sansa’s tongue formed a scathing reply, but before it could leave her lips, Margaery cut in.

“Lady Daenerys. We were told not to speak of this by his Grace.” Her tone was unexpectedly cold, and her pretty face had hardened, devoid of any of her usual playfulness.

Margaery’s chilly retort even took Daenerys by surprise. She burst out laughing. “Why, Margaery, _relax_! I’m only teasing dear Sansa.” Daenerys tugged hard on her hair with a playful grin, wrenching Sansa’s head back. Her violet eyes danced with a familiar madness.

“After all, isn’t that what _family_ does?”

* * *

Jaehaerys returned a day before their wedding.

The loud _slam_ of her bedroom door startled her, and she nearly dropped her embroidery. Sansa’s mood rapidly soured as she turned to catch sight of dark curls and crimson cloak, knowing it could only be the bastard prince.

She had half expected him to skip out entirely on their upcoming nuptials with how rarely she saw him.

“Prince Jaehaerys.” Sansa stood, inclining her head politely. She gazed at him curiously. His appearance was worn, dark circles beneath his eyes and a few curls had escaped the leather cord that bound the rest of his hair. He was exhausted, and there was no sign of gloating in his expression.

She suppressed a smile. The patrols had been unsuccessful, yet again. “I am happy to see you are well. Would you-“

“Your maid, Jeyne,” He cut in with a growl, waving away her false niceties.

Sansa dropped her façade, scowling darkly, already knowing where this was going. “She says you’ve been resistant to following Pycelle’s medical advice.” He advanced on her with a quick step of his feet. “Did I not ask you to adhere to his advice, while I was gone?”

“Yes.” Sansa gritted out. He was lecturing her as though she were a child, towering over her, with his broad shoulders, making her feel inconsequential and small.

“So, you disobeyed me.” He concluded, darkly.

Sansa looked away, sullenly.

“You _will_ do as I say.”

She despised the condescension in his tone.

“Fine. I will do as you say.” She bit out, a sudden idea sparking to life. “But on one condition.” If she could get him to agree to this, Trant would no longer be an issue, and just _maybe_ she could create an opening for herself.

Jaehaerys blinked, thrown for just a moment, before his placid expression slipped back into place. “You are in no place to make demands.” He snapped, irritably.

“It is a simple request.” Her chin jutted out stubbornly. “You allow me to take these walks without a guard escort.”

Jaehaerys let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Do you take me for an idiot?” He sneered. “Feeling awfully brave after hearing of your brother’s rescue, aren’t you? You _will_ have an escort for these walks.”

“Let me go with Jeyne then.” Sansa shot back.

“An escort you _cannot_ outrun. It will be an armed guard.”

Sansa’s fists tightened. “Then at least remove Trant from my service!” She shouted, chest heaving with tight anger. She did not care if Trant, himself, heard her at his post outside the door. “I haven’t done as Pycelle instructed, because _your father_ put him in my service. The man glares at me as though he cannot wait for the next opportunity to lay a hand on me.”

Her outburst was enough to give Jaehaerys pause. “Trant is in your service?”

“Yes. Did you not see his ugly face before you stormed in here?” Sansa spat out. She crossed her arms in defiance. He could hit her for her impudence, but he could not kill her. That knowledge buoyed her courage. She was their prisoner perhaps, but she would not be subservient in any measure.

The prince shot her a dark look and ran the back of his hand against his beard. “You are an exceedingly troublesome woman.” He snarled out. “Come.” He turned on his heel and walked out of her room. She scrambled to her feet to catch up to him, his pace nearly a sprint.

Her heart thudded. Where was he _going?_

Outside her bedroom, he was already speaking with Trant and the other guard that had been posted in her service. She only caught the tail end of the prince’s low voice.

“-no need. I’ll handle it.”

“Of course, sir.” Trant nodded, his gaze flickered over to Sansa. She instinctively shrunk back from his dark, glittering stare.

“ _Princess_.” Jaehaerys snapped. He began walking away once more at that infuriating speed of his. Sansa cursed him underneath her breath as she gathered her skirts to follow after him.

“Could you just,“ Sansa caught up to him, breathless. “Could you slow down? Where are we going?”

“The gardens.” Jaehaerys’ pace barely slowed. “You can walk there for today.”

Her steps slowed, as she realized what was happening. “ _You’re_ accompanying me?”

“Yes.”

“But,” Sansa blinked twice. “So Trant-“

“I have my own reasons for despising Trant. He’ll be removed from your service.” He replied off-handedly. “Don’t mistake this for any form of kindness.” He glanced at her with a cold, cutting look. “If you continue to be difficult, there _will_ be consequences.”

Sansa’s lips quirked upwards in triumph. She was more than satisfied with this win. Even if he chose to be cold about it, it made no difference to her. “The general of the Targaryen army is taking his time to personally escort me. I am honored that he would take the time to devote such attention to an unimportant matter.” Her voice went saccharine-sweet, dripping with sarcasm.

“Ensuring a prisoner stays where they ought to be, is important enough. The incompetence of a few men caused us to lose Robb Stark.” He looked over at her, his expression solemn and unyielding. “I would hate to lose you as well.”

Sansa involuntarily shivered. His threat was clear. _If she were to run, he would find her._

“I’ll reassign somebody to your guard, seeing as how I am gone often. This guard will be instructed not to touch you. Once we marry, your public engagements will increase. Having you bruised and battered won’t be pretty for anyone to look at.” Sansa suppressed a snort. _Yes, because that was what she was primarily concerned with. Her looks._

“You are too kind, Prince Jaehaerys.” Sansa drawled.

They came up on the gardens. Before her parents’ execution, she had come here often during her time in King’s Landing. It had not changed much since she had last seen it.

Large Mesquite trees extended far above the skies, keeping the air cool, and in the very center of the shady oasis was a pond, with all sorts of shimmering fish below the surface. Roses and hyacinths lined the walkways, dancing in the slight breeze. There were a few people strolling around the brick walkways, and as Sansa and Jaehaerys came into view, they glanced over in heightened interest and whispered behind their hands.

“It seems,” Sansa huffed. “That the people of the South are so fortunate, that they can idly gossip with all their spare time.”

“What else is there for them to do?” Jaehaerys walked beside her, his lips quirking into a cold smirk. “They were all born into a life of privilege and continue to benefit without lifting a finger.”

“And you consider yourself an exception to this?” Sansa challenged, her brow raised.

“Of course, I do.” She was surprised that he even entertained her question. “It is not as though Rhaegar has treated me well, my entire life. I had to earn his gratitude and trust. He would have been more than happy to cast me aside as a child had Elia not begged him to reconsider.”

Elia Martell. Sansa recalled her image from Margaery’s painting. Raven-haired and a warm smile upon her delicate features. That Jaehaerys would even mention her, was startling. No other Targaryen had done so, not even Aegon.

“Regardless.” He stared ahead with a curl of his lips. “There are plenty of men, _soldiers_ , that work tirelessly to conquer new lands for this empire. All so that these lords and ladies can continue to sit pretty and enjoy the finer things in life. They never have to consider once, at what cost their privilege has come from. The Targaryen empire has no use for such leeches.”

Sansa took in his words, slowly. It was the most she’d ever heard him speak. It certainly gave her more introspection into his character. Pieces of the puzzle began sliding into place, forming her knowledge of the prince. It wasn’t surprising to hear that being a bastard had instilled within him a desire to prove himself worthy. It was interesting, however, that he held such a negative view of the lesser lords and ladies.

They took the walkway that curved around the pond, as Sansa contemplated her options.

Perhaps she’d been short-sighted in her avoidance of him. Jaehaerys was at the heart of the operations. If anyone had vital information, it would be him. She only had to dig for it. “One could argue,” she carefully continued, “that members of your family benefit in the same manner as these ‘leeches’. I have only been here a week, but I have yet to see Aegon contribute anything of substance. He spends his days drinking and gambling while you go out on these patrols.”

“Nosy, aren’t you?” Jaehaerys made an amused sound, that came from the back of his throat. “The way you pry for information is obvious though it is entertaining to see you try.”

Sansa was determined not to look at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Nosy _and_ you’re a terrible liar.” Jaehaerys was toying with her, now. “It’s a wonder you haven’t been eaten up in court yet.”

“Speaking of court,” Sansa hotly retorted, scrambling to deflect. “I heard the most interesting of rumors.”

“I would think you would hear all sorts of fantastical stories.” He replied, dryly. “Perhaps you have heard of our infamous ability to withstand fires?”

“I have yet to.” Sansa raised her chin. “I only heard of a relationship between you and the Lady Daenerys.”

His eyes narrowed, and Sansa knew instantly she was playing with fire. Perhaps she wanted to get a rise out of him, tired of the prince’s constant indifference. She wanted him to feel at least half of her frustrations.

 **“** Like I said.” Jaehaerys intoned, darkly. “You are bound to hear all sorts of fantastical stories.”

“Your highness!” They both turned to see a guard coming up the pathway. He was skinnier than most of the guards Sansa had seen and he had straight brown hair. When he came close enough to see that it was Sansa, his eyes bulged almost comically. “Oh, Lady Sansa!”

“Sorry to be bothering you, your Highness. M’lady.” He ducked his head scratching, sheepishly at the side of his ear. “Princess Rhaenys has asked for you. I was told by Ser Trant you might be here. I ran as fast as I could.”

“I’ll be with her shortly.” Jaehaerys replied, nodding.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Sansa asked, interest alight. “Is her health improving?”

The guard opened his mouth, but Jaehaerys was quicker.

“It’s none of your concern.” He answered, flatly. “Payne.” he gestured to the skinny guard. “You’re to accompany Lady Sansa through the gardens. Make sure she stays here for the full hour.”

Sansa glowered at his patronizing tone. “I think I can manage walking around, perfectly well, your Highness.” A shadow of irritation passed over the prince’s face. She observed it with silent interest. He was irritated with her, but not angry.

“See to it, that she gets back to her suite, afterwards.” Payne nodded, earnestly. Then Jaehaerys turned to her, before leaving, his expression smug. “Get plenty of rest.”

“Tomorrow, you become a Targaryen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update: june 8th or earlier
> 
> ty ty for your continued support, love reading all the reviews :)  
> *i don't want to spoil things, but this is a solely jon/sansa story for those of you who were worried about how dany plays a part lol


	4. a drunken and melancholy union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please be aware: this chapter directly discusses a forced consummation. While it does not take place, the possibility of one occurring is mentioned prominently within this chapter.

When Jeyne came in the morning, to help her get ready, Sansa took one look at the white lace and tulle gathered in her maid’s arms and nearly wept.

 _This wasn’t how it was supposed to be_.

It was supposed to be her mother here, instead of Jeyne. It was supposed to be Winterfell, not King’s Landing. It was supposed to be a nice Northern lord instead of the bastard Targaryen prince.

It was all _wrong_.

A lump surfaced in her throat, and she felt the familiar prickle of tears, threatening to burst forth. She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, furious at herself. _What good would a couple of tears do?_ Jeyne would report it back to Jaehaerys, and she refused to let that bastard have any gratification in her misery.

Graciously, Jeyne did not comment on her slipping composure. Instead, she busied herself with Sansa’s hair, poking pins into her scalp.

“Are you nervous, m’lady?” She asked, quietly.

Sansa nodded, mechanically.

“I should be nervous as well, if I were you.” Jeyne commented, whilst slipping another pin at the base of her head. “It’s quite lucky, being able to marry a prince and all.”

Sansa swallowed a contemptuous reply and instead, settled for a brittle smile. “Yes, how lucky for me.”

Margaery came by soon after to oversee Jeyne’s handiwork. Although she wore only a robe, her own hair was already meticulously swept up in style that mimicked a waterfall of loose curls.

“You’ve been crying?” She asked sharply, as she caught sight of Sansa’s swollen reflection.

Sansa felt Jeyne’s hands pause slightly, before continuing her braiding.

“It’s how I fall asleep these days.” Sansa retorted, uncaringly.

“It’s of no concern, Lady Margaery.” Jeyne spoke up, quickly. “I’ve brought some ice from the kitchen. We can reduce the swelling before I apply her make-up.” She moved away to go get the ice she had brought.

Margaery barely nodded in acknowledgement at Jeyne’s words. Sansa watched as she hesitated for a moment, before coming close, resting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. She leaned forward so close that Sansa could distinctly discern notes of jasmine in her perfume.

“You must be strong.” Margaery spoke so quietly, Sansa would have missed it had she not been watching the woman’s reflection, and saw her lips move. “Letting your emotions get the better of you, especially on a day when all eyes are on you, will benefit no one.”

Sansa’s fists clenched together, tightly. She did not need a lecture from the Tyrell heiress. Margaery’s family was alive and well in Highgarden while Sansa’s parents were rotting in the ground. She, who was so happily married to Aegon and was counting down till Rhaegar keeled over so that she could be declared queen, had nothing of value to impart.

She kept her mouth shut, staring stonily ahead.

Margaery straightened, stepping away. “Jeyne. Be sure you take the utmost care when you dress her. The gown is very delicate.”

“Of course, Lady Margaery.” Jeyne returned and handed Sansa two cloths of bundled ice. “Let it rest over your eyes, m’lady.”

Sansa obliged her. It gave her a reason to close her eyes, and block everything out. She focused on breathing evenly, while Jeyne made stilted conversation with Margaery as she styled her hair.

Despite Jeyne’s lack of conversational prowess, she was undeniably talented with her hands.

At the end of three grueling hours, Sansa looked vastly different from the gaunt prisoner that had emerged a week ago from the cells. She studied her full reflection once Jeyne stepped away with an eager smile.

Her gown was admittedly a work of art. The fabric flared over her hips prettily, leading to a spectacular train, but the highlight was the top portion of the dress. Her chest and sleeves were covered in a sheer tulle with painstaking embroidery that gave the illusion that delicate white flowers were blooming and twisting over her bare skin. The Targaryens certainly had spared no expense in ensuring that she appeared a bride, worthy of Jaehaerys.

While the form-fitting dress did little to hide her frail figure and pale disposition, Jeyne had expertly applied makeup, to give back color to her cheeks and mask the dark circles under her eyes. Half of her fiery hair had been contained in a braided updo, while the rest hung in loose waves down her back. It was an exquisite styling that Sansa would have spent hours learning how to do, back when she had been enamored with Southern trends.

“Is it satisfactory, Lady Sansa?” Jeyne’s brown eyes went wide with worry, when Sansa didn’t speak immediately, only staring blankly at her reflection.

She looked pretty. She looked _Southern_.

Sansa despised it, entirely. She was going to be ill.

_Mother, father, I’m sorry._

“It is quite satisfactory.” She spoke, after a moment, trying to find her voice.

Behind her, Margaery nodded in solemn approval.

“Oh goodness.” Jeyne’s flustered voice came, paired with the sound of the door opening. “I did not expect to see your Highness so early.”

Sansa blinked owlishly as she registered her maid’s words, turning sharply to see her imminent husband stepping through the door.

She appraised him, noticing that he had cleaned up in some measure. Jaehaerys wore a black suit, that was of course, impeccably tailored, highlighting his broad shoulders and athletic figure. His beard was cleanly trimmed, and his dark curls had been slightly tamed, pulled away from his sharp features.

He was indeed handsome, she bitterly acknowledged. Certainly, when she had first laid eyes on him, before his family’s betrayal, she had been drawn to his looks and had faintly wondered if they would make a good match.

Her stomach twisted, unamused with the irony of it all.

“Leave us.” He commanded, grey eyes flickering over to her. Jeyne quickly obeyed, while Margaery spared her a backwards glance before taking her leave.

Sansa stepped away from the mirror. She didn’t like seeing their reflection together, groom and bride, moments before their nuptials. It made the nightmare that much more real.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.” She nodded stiffly in greeting. “But, I suppose you don’t strike me as a superstitious person.”

“No, I’m not.” Jaehaerys agreed with a smirk. “I prefer to put my trust in preparation and strategy.”

_Spoken like a true general._

He stepped closer. She didn’t miss the way his grey eyes flickered over her figure.

“Am I to your liking, your Highness?” She asked dryly. And because she could not help herself, she added with a curl of her lips, “I hope being married to a wolf will not be too unpleasant for you.”

She expected anger, and instead, a short huff of laughter came.

Jaehaerys looked almost _amused._

He reached for her hand. They were moments away from being married, and yet this was the first time he had touched her physically. His skin burned, uncomfortably warm against her palm.

“No, I don’t believe it will be too unpleasant.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed _. What was he playing at?_

The door opened again, and Sansa reflexively pulled away, folding her hands together.

“Brother,” Aegon breezed into the room. His silvery-blonde hair was slicked back for the occasion, and his black suit was pressed and without a wrinkle. It was to be Aegon, who would accompany her down the aisle. “Sister,” he inclined his head towards Sansa with a smile playing at his lips.

Sansa scowled.

_I have three brothers, and they are Robb, Bran, and Rickon._

_You are no brother of mine._

“Hmph,” Aegon turned his attention to his half-brother, smirking at Jaehaerys. “Even on your wedding day you look grim as ever.”

“I’m nothing, if not consistent.” Jaehaerys shrugged. He seemed bored with the conversation, already.

The two half-brothers were like day and night, Sansa observed. It wasn’t just the stark contrast in appearance with Jon’s deceptively Northern looks and Aegon, who was practically a doppelganger for his father.

It was their personalities that differed greatly as well. Aegon gave off an easy air about him and a bright assured confidence that veered on narcissism. He spoke well and smiled easily. On the other hand, her husband-to-be was decidedly colder. He was brutal and efficient, preferring directness over niceties.

A cool finger suddenly traced the small of her back, dipping dangerously low, where the white lace of her train flared away from her hips. She spun to see Aegon, bearing an unrepentant smirk upon his face. “I’m glad my family decided to keep you alive. Your much prettier with your head, then without it.”

Fury coursed through her veins. The implication that she should be grateful to his family burned at her. The _nerve_ of him to touch her so casually and speak as though he owned her.

 _But they do own you._ A mocking voice whispered.

_You are no longer a high-born lady of House Stark. Your House is dead and you are a prisoner._

Sansa steeled herself. Perhaps she was a prisoner, but she had not lost her dignity. “Thank you, your highness.” A touch of anger seeped through her falsely congenial tone. “I am flattered. But, I do ask you to refrain from touching me so familiarly with my fiancé only a foot away. I would not think it wise to anger him, especially as he commands the armed forces.”

A short bark of derisive laughter from Jaehaerys startled her.

“Careful Aegon,” he leaned back, thoroughly entertained. “This wolf still has her fangs, it seems.”

“So it would appear.” The silver-haired prince looked slightly put-out. “We’ll have to teach this one some manners, it seems.” He shrugged and waggled his finger at Jaehaerys. “Nevertheless, I think a wolf bitch and bastard make quite the match.”

Sansa stiffened. She’d been called variations of ‘wolf bitch’ and ‘mutt’ nearly several times a day while at King’s Landing, that at this point she was numb to the insult. She was more curious as to what Jaehaerys’ reaction would be. There wasn’t much that ruffled his feathers, but she knew he would detest any attention given to his bastardry.

Sure enough, a dark look came into Jaehaerys’ grey eyes. He was silent for a moment, before making his way towards his brother. “I seem to recall you asking for the _wolf bitch_ , when father proposed she marry one of us.” He clapped Aegon’s back with a haughty sneer.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to enjoy her.” It was a horrid promise, and the prince sounded as though he fully intended to follow through.

Jaehaerys strode out of the room and Aegon only clucked his tongue. “Bastards never quite learn their place, hm?” He mused aloud more to himself. To Sansa, he turned his head with a dangerously bright smile.

“Family drama, it’s all tiresome, really.” He offered his arm. “Well, shall we?”

Sansa took it, unwillingly, and with dread in her stomach.

* * *

Crimson and smoke-colored banners decorated the Great Hall in ostentatious fanfare. One glance was all it took to be sure that this was a Targaryen wedding.

Lesser southern ladies and lords of the court filled the hall, craning their necks to bear witness to Sansa’s humiliation. Most of the spectators, Sansa did not recognize, but a few she did, from her time in court. Sansa spotted Lady Hayford almost immediately, as Aegon walked her down the aisle. She was beaming brightly in a daisy-yellow gown, and good god there were _tears_ at the edge of her lashes.

Sansa was in disbelief. If there was one person that should be crying, it certainly was not Lady Hayford.

Aegon’s steady grip on her elbow, kept her from any thoughts of escaping and so she turned her attention to her inevitable fate where Jaehaerys stood. Unlike his father beside him, he did not hold a gloating expression. He looked rather solemn and paired with his black suit, he could have been attending a funeral rather than his own wedding.

She had imagined this day so many times, but never like this.

Her father had promised her a worthy match.

_Brave, gentle and strong, dear Sansa. I’ll find a good husband for you._

She knew he would have, had his life not been so cruelly cut off. He had loved her so much. It hurt her that she could not recall in sharp clarity that last time she had told her father she loved him. Instead of having him by her side on her wedding day, she had furthest thing, in the form of Aegon Targaryen.

The Targaryen heir led her up the stairs, so she could meet Jaehaerys at the altar. He took her hands, as was necessary for the ceremony, and despite her hatred for Jaehaerys, she was sure she would have fallen to the ground if not for his hold.

She vacillated in and out of focus throughout the rites. The only constant was the heat of Jaehaerys’ skin on hers, a brand that fixed her into place. Sansa steadied her breathing and willed herself not to show any visible signs of her slipping sanity.

Nobody was coming to save her. There was no hope of Robb or Arya storming the castle, to magically whisk her away from this wretched family. Despair curled in her stomach, settling like a thick poison.

When the time came to seal the rites, it was Jaehaerys who leaned forward to give her an unfeeling kiss while she stood, motionless for the half-second that their lips met. She acutely felt the heat of his body, even as he stepped back. He squeezed her hand, tightly, looking out to the cheering spectators with a tense smile.

 _Mine_ , he seemed to say, and Sansa feared that he was right. She was no longer a wolf.

She belonged to the dragons.

* * *

Shortly after, the festivities moved to the gardens, where the Targaryens had once again spared no expense and brought to life an opulent, outdoor atmosphere.

Lights had been placed in the trees, illuminating the summer air with an ethereal warm glow. String musicians sat by the pond waters, playing familiar pieces, that had half of the guests out of their seat, eager to dance. The other half sat by, keen to indulge in the magnificent feast that was laid out before them. There were several wine decanters for each individual table, and soon, the buzz of raucous laughter and conversation filled the air.

It seemed everyone was having a grand time, Sansa noted, with a look of barely-concealed disgust from her place on the dais. She was alone to wallow in her misery, with her very own wine decanter that was nearly empty thanks to her solo efforts.

Jaehaerys had excused himself partway into the dinner, muttering something or another about attending to business. Sansa had shrugged, uncaringly, thinking he would be back after a few minutes. But it had been over thirty minutes since he had disappeared.

Personally, the less she saw of him, the better. But, it was grating nonetheless to see the pitiful glances thrown her way. She did not blame them. An abandoned bride on her wedding night was gossip fodder, that was impossible to resist.

Sansa fumed from her place, downing the rest of her glass. Did the bastard prince have no sense of propriety or appearances? Did he loathe her so much, that he could not sit by her for a few hours in silence?

“Oh, now isn’t _this_ a sad sight?”

Aegon sidled up to her with his trademark shit-eating grin, and of course, a glass of liquor in his right hand. “Dear Sansa, if you’d like to be my second wife, I am not opposed. Just say the word, and I’ll free you from my callous little brother.”

Sansa shut her eyes, practicing deep, meditative breaths. _Do not kill Aegon. Do not kill Aegon. Do not-_

“Not only has he abandoned you,” He sighed plaintively. “but he’s with Daenerys, of all people.”

Sansa’s eyes flew open, and she looked over the tables, spotting Daenerys’ silvery hair immediately. Aegon hadn’t been lying. Her and Jaehaerys were in a corner of the gardens away from the crowd. They were in the midst of what looked to be a heated argument. Daenerys’ face was pinched with anger, and though Jaehaerys had his usual apathetic expression, his shoulders were drawn together tightly.

She could easily guess as to what had ignited Daenerys’ wrath.

“I have heard they are lovers.” Sansa observed them, her voice carefully controlled.

“ _Were_.” Aegon corrected with a sneer. “She only complains of it constantly. He has not touched her since the engagement came to be. He did not inherit our father’s fondness for adultery.”

That _was_ surprising. Sansa managed to maintain a tone of indifference. “My husband is an independent man, free to do as he wishes. It bothers me not what he does with his time.”

“Ooh, _very good_.” Aegon snickered. “Just a bit more practice, and that might have been believable. I will hand it to you though, love, you’re tougher than you look.”

Sansa’s eye twitched. “Do you not have a wife of your own to bother?”

“My wife doesn’t like me much when I drink.” Aegon laughed.

All the wine she’d consumed, loosened her tongue further. “One has to wonder when she _does_ like you, then.”

Aegon was too preoccupied, to be offended. His attention had already shifted to the dance floor. One woman seemed to catch his attention. “You’ll excuse me.” He said, taking another sip, before leaving his glass before Sansa. “There’s a pretty girl who wishes to dance with me, and I am too much of a gentleman to deny her.”

He strode off, meeting a pretty brunette, and wound his arm around the girl's narrow waist. She wondered what Margaery thought of all this. _Was her future to be the same as Margaery's? Just a target of humiliation as her husband chased at the skirts of another woman?_

“I come to greet the happy couple, and yet the groom is missing.”

Sansa was going to have a conniption. First Aegon, and now Rhaegar. The gods were truly testing her.

“Your son is-“ her gaze darted back towards the gardens, but she blinked in surprise. The two Targaryens were no longer there. She nearly saw red. So, they’d gone off together. Jaehaerys was a bastard through and through. “-otherwise preoccupied. I am told he will be back soon.” She lied easily.

“No matter,” Rhaegar towered over her, so close that she could see the individual wrinkles at the corner of his mouth and underneath his eyes. “I did want to speak with you, privately.”

“Of course, your grace.”

“It goes without mentioning, that I expect for you to consummate the marriage-well, even after the marriage, Jaehaerys and you should have relations. Having heirs is a priority, of course.”

Sansa jolted from her place. Her back went ram-rod straight. “Heirs?” she echoed, instantly nauseous.

Rhaegar nodded, as though it were so simple. “Of course. No marriage is complete without one. You cannot think we would have married you off, if we did not intend for one or two children to come of this union. I fully intend for Aegon to take the seat in King’s Landing. Jaehaerys will take the seat in Winterfell, and when the time comes your children will succeed him. A true Targaryen dynasty will be born, hm?”

Sansa’s hands shook. She’d been a fool for not seeing this coming.

 _Her children with Jaehaerys would rule the North?_ It was too cruel. They would not be Starks, they would be branded as Targaryens, just as she had been. They would run through the halls of Winterfell, never knowing the true king and queen who had ruled justly and kindly just years before. They would be born into hatred, and if they allowed her to live long enough to watch her children grow old, she would be forced to watch as their hearts twisted into heritable madness.

Sansa could not stop her trembling. It did not escape the king’s notice.

“You don’t look well at all.” Rhaegar smiled cruelly. “I’ll have Jeyne escort you to Jaehaerys’ chambers. Give you a moment to prepare yourself.”

* * *

Jaehaerys’ chambers were not so different from her own. It was odd nonetheless, being led in, by Jeyne. She stepped over the threshold, feeling immediately as though she were intruding. There were papers strewn about his desk, and his crimson cloak had been stuffed haphazardly into the closet, which had been left slightly ajar. There were signs that Jaehaerys, did indeed inhabit this room, but it felt oddly hollow nonetheless.

Jeyne led her to the bathroom to change out of her wedding gown. She’d brought an ivory shift that left very little to the imagination, and Sansa imaged with distaste, Daenerys gleefully picking it out. As she changed, Sansa studied her reflection with growing fear.

“Wine.” She rasped, suddenly.

Jeyne blinked, holding the mass of tulle in her arms. “Pardon, m’lady?”

“Bring me wine-no liquor.” She amended with a shake of her head.

“I don’t think-“

“I didn’t ask.” Sansa snapped. “I am your prince’s wife, and I am directing you to bring me liquor.”

Jeyne pursed her lips and nodded. “Of course.”

If Sansa had been any less drunk, she would have felt some guilt at behaving so brusquely. But she was moments away from having to sleep with the enemy, and so she could not bring herself to care.

Jeyne returned with the alcohol as Sansa sat on the chaise in the front of the room, unbraiding her hair.

She placed the bottle of liquor before Sansa, along with an accompanying glass. “Anything else?” Jeyne asked, hands folded together, carefully.

“No. Nothing else.”

“I’ll return in the morning, m’lady.” She curtseyed and took her leave.

Sansa eyed the bottle of amber liquid that Jeyne had brought. She got up, took the glass, and began drinking.

* * *

Sansa had made herself comfortable on the chaise and sat on her knees as she enjoyed the liquor. It had to be a ridiculously expensive bottle, for every sip went smoothly down her throat, and burned pleasantly. The more she drank, the less she could recall of her fears and anxieties. It was maddeningly addictive.

By the time Jaehaerys returned to his own chambers, Sansa’s world was swirling about her. She could not recall how long she’d been drinking, nor did she care to.

“Oh, there you are! My beloved husband!” She trilled out with an exuberant laugh, raising her arm in greeting.

Jaehaerys peeled off his suit jacket, watching her closely with narrowed grey eyes. “You’re drunk.” He observed, flatly.

“Goodness,” She rolled her eyes. Her head fell back on the cushions. “Nothing gets past you, Jaehaerys. So intelligent. How lucky for me.”

She could hear him move about the room. “Jeyne told me she’d sent you off to bed. She warned me you might be--inebriated.”

“Jeyne,” Sansa scoffed, glaring up at the ceiling. “How obedient she is to report everything back to you. It must be _so_ useful having her around.”

“Very useful.” He drawled, with a twitch of his lips. “I wondered where you’d gone off to.”

“Oh yes.” Sansa sneered. At the back of her mind, warning bells went off. It was no use. The alcohol had created a dense haze, cutting away all thoughts of self-preservation, her unfiltered thoughts spouting forth. “Perhaps I had been on the dais, where you left me when you went off with Daenerys.”

He made no apology. And why should he? She was his wife in name only, and his prisoner in all other aspects. The thought re-ignited her anger, and she got up, unsteadily to pour herself more liquor. If she felt her anger still, that meant she was not drunk enough.

Jaehaerys advanced, moving swiftly to pluck her glass out her hand. She made a short noise of indignation. “What are you- _I need that_!”

“You’ve had enough.” He grit out with a cold look. “Sit down. If you keep moving around, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Sansa let out a whine, flopping back onto the chaise.

 _Stupid, stupid Jaehaerys._ And of course, he was _right_. Not only was the room moving, she was beginning to feel faint waves of nausea radiating throughout her body. “Gods.” She muttered under her breath, her eyes squeezed together tightly.

“Here.” She heard his low voice command. She peeked through her lashes, surprised to see a glass of water in his hand. She half-expected him to leave her on his chaise while he went off to sleep. She took it, gratefully, and downed it in one go.

Jaehaerys took a seat on the chaise, beside her, watching carefully. “Better?”

“A bit.” She mumbled. It was all too much for her to process through her alcohol-addled state. She was sure that Jaehaerys’ semi-decent behavior was all a hallucination. So maybe he did have a decent side, _or perhaps_ -

A terrible thought suddenly came to mind.

She’d briefly forgotten Rhaegar’s command, but the sudden recollection slammed hard into her. Jaehaerys was only trying to sober her up so that they could complete the consummation.

Her anxiety returned in full force, as it clawed at her stomach. She’d never laid with a man. The furthest she’d gone with a boy was with Harry Hardyng, when his family had visited Winterfell during her 17th birthday. She’d been instantly smitten by his blue-eyes and dimpled smile.

They’d been practically children, and their shared inexperience had been as clear as day when he clumsily groped her over her dress, and they’d knocked their teeth together when she’d first kissed him.

Jaehaerys was undeniably a grown man, and given his looks and status within court, he was probably more experienced than she could hope to match up too. Perhaps he had great expectations of her. She gnawed at her bottom lip. No doubt he would spend the entire time comparing her to Daenerys.

Sansa placed the glass of water down on the table before her, trying to collect herself. Her mind had abandoned logic, her actions driven purely by adrenaline and whatever liquid courage she had left in her being.

The sooner this was over, the better.

She reached for him, tugging at his shirt collar, as her lips descended upon his. Her kiss was brash and unyielding, a complete reversal from their first kiss. She braced her weight against the heat of his chest, and underneath her fingertips, she felt him go rigid with surprise. For the slightest moment, she felt his lips answer hers, but the pressure disappeared so quickly, she was not sure if she had hallucinated it.

His hands reached up to catch her wrists, using a fraction of his strength to gently push her away. Their faces were mere inches away, and Sansa huffed angrily, in that small space. Jaehaerys looked up at her with that infuriatingly, steady gaze of his. Was there _nothing_ that would agitate this man?

“What are you doing?” He asked, quietly as Sansa glared down at him.

“Doing as I’ve been told.” Sansa retorted. “Perhaps I should wear a blonde wig and pretend as though I have a stick up my arse. Would that make this easier for you?”

Jaehaerys’ grip on her wrists tightened. “What are you- you’ve been told to do _what_?”

“Are you being purposefully obtuse?” Sansa gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Your father wants us to consummate this marriage. You know have relations, have sex, _fuck each other_.” She spat out, full of contempt. “Surely I don’t have to explain to you how children are made.”

Realization flickered into his expression, and he pushed her away further, this time, more forcefully. “Fucking _hell_.” Jaehaerys growled. He stood, snatched up the entire bottle of liquor and took a hearty gulp. Sansa sat back in a dazed silence, trying to understand what was happening. _Hadn’t he been aware of his father’s plans? Why was he acting like this?_

Jaehaerys spoke after a moment. “I won’t lay with Eddard Stark’s daughter.” His tone gave Sansa the impression, that he could not think of anything more abhorrent.

“But,” Her brow creased. “Your father, he told me-“

“It doesn’t matter what he wants.” Her husband snapped. She saw his fist clench tightly, a white-knuckled grasp around the liquor bottle. “I won’t lay with you.”

“Oh,” Sansa was tongue-tied. All the worry and anxiety that had built up till now, released with a heavy exhale, and she sank further into the cushions, feeling quite light-headed. _Was he so disgusted with her that he was willing to disobey his king? Perhaps he was so in love with Daenerys that he could not bring himself to even touch her._ That theory was comforting. If she was spared this one cruelty, she could be content with that.

An uncomfortable silence spread out between the two of them. She huffed in irritation, falling back onto the cushions of the chaise.

“I’m tired.” She muttered, more to herself, drawing her legs closer to her body. Now that her anxiety over the consummation had abated, she was suddenly aware, of how weary she felt.

Jaehaerys glanced over at her. “Sleep, then.” She peered back at him. Some of the tension had eased out of his expression. He no longer looked so furious. He went to grab something, and when he returned, she felt something drape over her legs.

It wasn’t heavy nor big enough to be a blanket. She peered down. It was his suit jacket.

“Your father,” she blinked back up at Jaehaerys, as another worry came to mind. “He’ll want proof.”

“I’ll handle it.” He replied, shortly.

His answer was vague and unsatisfactory, but Sansa was too drained to argue or care. She hadn’t thought she would be able to sleep with ease, knowing Jaehaerys was so close by, but her body so desperately craved rest, that it instinctively relaxed.

Her eyelids fluttered close. She wondered distantly, what her family would think of this mess she had found herself in. They had made her a Targaryen bride. They could dress her in crimson and onyx-colored silks all they liked, but she had to remain strong.

Today had nearly weakened her resolve, but she had survived it. And so, she would do her best, to survive as many more days as it took for her to escape.

She tried to conjure an image of all the Starks, in better times, smiling widely and laughing easily. _Mother, father, Bran, and Rickon…were they together in the after-life?_ She had to believe they were. They had suffered so much, that was the least they deserved. That hopeful thought lulled her to sleep, but before she completely drifted off, she thought she heard Jaehaerys’ low voice.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he had whispered.

But it was so faint, nearly indistinguishable from the slight whistle of the wind, that she had to have imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update: june 18th or earlier (just a bit longer of a timeline since school is back in session for me)
> 
> ps, really loving all the feedback and how invested you guys are in this story! hope this was a good update for you :)


	5. hidden in the depths of desperation

Sansa awoke feeling as though someone had stomped on her skull throughout the night.

It was an intensely unpleasant feeling, and as her mind worked to synchronize with her body, the discomfort only grew as her eyes registered sunlight streaming through open curtains. Her eyes squinted shut, and she rolled back with a lazy sigh.

_Christ, she’d done a number on herself._

Flashes of the prior night came and went. She had been _abhorrently drunk_ , that much was apparent from the acute throbbing of her head. And she’d been in a terrible mood the night before. A sudden recollection of herself shouting in Jaehaerys’ face vaguely floated through her brain, and she let out a groan.

Undoubtedly, he would find some way to make her pay for her behavior.

She breathed deeply. That’s right, she’d been in Jaehaerys’ chambers. _No,_ she straightened, with a start, she _was_ in Jaehaerys’ chamber, emphasis on present tense. Sansa was laying in his bed. His scent, though faint, was unmistakable and clung to the bed sheets that she was swathed in.

A jolt of panic shot through her as she tried to recall everything that had happened.

She had become miserably drunk, and he had finally returned, later in the night. She had meant to get over the consummation but then he had-he had _refused_ to lay with her.

Sansa deflated in relief, secure in the memory that he had been disgusted at the prospect of even touching her. Her gaze flickered over to the empty side of the bed. It looked somewhat rumpled. So, perhaps he had at least suppressed his disgust long enough, to at least fall asleep in the same bed as her.

There was no sign of him though, so he must have risen early and taken his leave. Perhaps if she was lucky, he had left on his patrols and it would be another few days before she would have to see him again.

“How are you feeling?”

She nearly fell out of the bed in shock as Jeyne materialized at her side.

“Good _god_. Jeyne!” Sansa hissed, clutching at her chest. How did one person walk so quietly?

“Apologies, m’lady.” Jeyne handed her a glass of water with a small twitch of her lips. “Shall we get ready for the day? His highness said he would like to break his fast with you.”

Sansa quelled the disappointment that stirred in her chest at the confirmation that Jaehaerys was still in the castle.

“Yes.” She blinked, taking a sip of her glass. “Where is he?”

“Out in the yard, sparring with a few of his men, I believe.”

“Oh,” Sansa pulled back the blanket, ready to follow Jeyne to the bathroom. She froze when her eyes fell upon distinct, rust-colored spots upon the bedsheets. Jeyne followed her gaze, curious as to what had caused Sansa’s pause.

_They hadn’t laid together._

Sansa had been so certain, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Jaehaerys had moved her from the chaise to the bed, but she didn’t recall him touching her further than that. Wouldn’t she have remembered such a thing? Doubt gnawed at her stomach. She extended her index finger, to gingerly dab at the spots. It had already dried, but it was undoubtedly blood. _Where had this come from?_

“It’s perfectly normal, m’lady.” Jeyne’s soft voice came. “Women bleed all the time, during their first time. If you’re sore, I can have Pycelle give you some pain-relief.”

Sansa couldn’t look away. “No, I’m not sore. I was just,” she trailed off, with a shake of her head. “It’s nothing.”

“I’ll clean the sheets m’lady, then, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Yes,” Sansa slid out of bed, unable to shake the queer feeling that had overcome her. “Please clean them.”

Jeyne stared at her, no doubt wondering about her odd behavior. But she did not comment on it further, for which Sansa was grateful. Instead, she got to work, braiding Sansa’s hair, and helped her slip on an emerald colored gown that cinched a bit too tightly at the waist. Sansa tried not to dwell too much on the rust-colored spots, determined to confront Jaehaerys once they were in private.

Sansa was ready within the hour, and she followed Jeyne, as she led her to one of the many parlor rooms scattered about the castle.

Jaehaerys was already there, and Sansa’s stomach flipped, uneasily as she caught sight of him.

_Had they really consummated the marriage?_

Sansa took her seat across from her new husband, noting with a quirked brow, his slight state of dishevelment. Jaehaerys had only a thin white shirt on, that was marked with dirt stains, and his curls were pulled carelessly back, as though he had done it with one hand. He had likely come straight from the training yard.

“Your Highness.” Sansa quietly greeted.

“I thought Jeyne would have a much harder time waking you up.” Jaehaerys eyed her, a mixture of condescension and curiosity laced his tone.

Sansa maintained a serene expression. She was getting progressively better at shoving down her true emotions. “I have a slight headache.” She lied, smoothly. It would have been more accurate to say she felt as though her head was being bashed in by cymbals around her ears.

Jaehaerys chuckled. “Unsurprising. You drank half a bottle of whiskey. I was surprised you didn’t vomit.”

She flushed, mortified at the very thought. “I behaved untowardly, forgive me.” Sansa silently resolved to never consume a drop of alcohol, so long as she was in King’s Landing.

Her husband only shrugged, as though unbothered that she had gone on a drunken rampage the night before. Jaehaerys seemed much more interested in the spread before them, then disciplining her.

He reached for the platter of potatoes, and Sansa noticed immediately that his hand was bandaged, the gauzy fabric, a sharp contrast to his bronzed skin. From the way the end of the bandage hung off his palm, it was clear it had been done haphazardly and in a rush. She doubted that a skilled fighter such as Jaehaerys had injured it sparring with wooden sticks. It had to have been from something else. 

Sansa’s lip curled, faintly. _So, that’s where the blood had come from._ The tension that she had held within her body, since the morning, slowly ebbed away.

She checked to make sure they were alone before speaking. “A clever trick.” When he met her gaze, she pointed to his hand. “I’m surprised at you.”

He snorted. “If you’re flattered, don’t be. It was either spill a few drops of blood or they would have had Pycelle conduct a medical examination on you. You were bound to fail the latter, so I had no other choice.”

 _What a gentleman._ Sansa thought, sardonically.

Not that she would complain. His disgust for her, worked out entirely in her favor.

“I’ll be leaving later this afternoon.” Jaehaerys announced. “I may not be back for a couple of days. You’re expected to keep out of trouble.”

“Of course.” Sansa replied, primly dabbing at her lips. Inwardly, she danced with glee.

“Payne has been assigned to you as a personal guard. He’s to be with you at all times, whether you’re in court or you’re talking your daily walk. Podrick may be half Trant’s size, but don’t get any funny ideas.” Jaehaerys tilted his head with a dark smirk. “He’s the fastest soldier we have. I doubt you’d like the consequences much, if you were to try to escape.”

Sansa managed a tight smile. “I don’t know what you’re going on about. I’ll eagerly await your return, _husband_.” She steeped the last word with as much bitterness as she could muster.

“And one more thing.” Jaehaerys placed his fork down, meeting her gaze directly. “Stay away from Daenerys.”

Sansa blinked. Of all the things she had anticipated he would say, that had not been one of them.

“She’ll only cause unnecessary trouble for you. The last thing we need is for you to get caught up in something, especially while I’m away.”

His warning had come out of nowhere, yet it was not unwarranted. Daenerys undeniably, frightened Sansa. Something in her violet eyes spoke to an instability, and always had Sansa on edge whenever she was forced to interact with the blonde Targaryen.

At the back of her mind, Sansa wondered why Jaehaerys felt the need to caution her away. It wasn’t as though Sansa ever expressed a desire to be close to Daenerys. He should have spoken to his scorned lover and dealt with her directly. It seemed the logical course of action, but then again, Targaryens rarely relied on sound logic. They were ruled by their emotions and passion.

Sansa stared down at her unfinished plate, feeling uneasy. Jaehaerys’ brow quirked upwards. “Understand?” He pressed.

Daenerys was a Targaryen ruled thoroughly by her emotions, and so far, Daenerys had shown only negative ones toward her. Though it burned at her to once again, have to obey Jaehaerys’ orders, it was the only prudent course of action.

She nodded wordlessly, and Jaehaerys, leaned back, satisfied.

* * *

The first few days without Jaehaerys passed by in pure monotony.

Initially, she didn’t mind the routine, clockwork itinerary of her day. Jeyne would wake her around nine, and she would break fast alone in her chambers. Margaery would breeze by and take her to court for a couple of hours, where she pretended to be interested in every inane story recounted to her. Afterwards, Payne took her to the gardens for her daily walk, and then she would return to her chambers, to either do some reading or some more embroidering.

It did not take long her impatience to take hold of her. Arya and Robb were fighting for their lives up North while Jaehaerys led a hunt for them, and all she could do was stitch a handkerchief for the twentieth time this week.

It was _maddening._

She grew restless, envisioning a potential escape, but the problem was of course, Podrick Payne and Jeyne, her constant shadows. Sansa began speaking to Podrick on her daily walks, partly out of sheer boredom, but also in the hopes of eliciting information from the soldier that could prove useful.

Podrick Payne was an infinitely kinder man than Meryn Trant. He stuttered when she had first addressed him, unsure if she had even meant to speak to him. How a flustered soldier like Podrick had ended up in the guard of one of the most ruthless rulers, evaded any sort of sense. 

After her first afternoon of speaking with the guard, Sansa dared to hold an infinitesimal amount of hope. She quickly came to realize that Podrick Payne was a man that was very easy to influence.

Sansa decided first, to have the guard warm up to her. She began asking after him and probing into his story.

“I’m not really in the armed forces, m’lady.” He clarified, when she asked how he came to be in the castle’s service.

“Really,” Sansa’s brow rose. “Your uniform could have fooled me.”

“I wanted to be a soldier, I had the speed for it, but I didn’t have the strength or stamina. So, I got the basic training, but they assigned me as a castle guard. I’ve never fought in a battle. I’m nothing like Prince Jaehaerys. No one is, really.” His admiration was clear. 

Sansa frowned. “Is he really as good as they all say?”

Podrick looked offended as soon as the question left her mouth. “There isn’t a soldier out there that could defeat the prince in one-on-one combat. Many have challenged him, but they all were soundly defeated.”

“You really respect him.” Sansa withheld the sarcasm in her tone. “We are lucky to have you, truly.”

“Of course. He’s my commanding officer.” Podrick straightened. “Not only is he a fair commander, he has a kind heart. I used to be in Princess Rhaenys’ service, and he was the only one of his family that would visit her. “

That caught her attention. “Princess Rhaenys?”

“Well, yes. I used to be her guard, before I was re-assigned to you.”

 _Huh._ Sansa’s mind whirred. She had been at King’s Landing for nearly a few weeks, and still she had yet to ever see the sickly princess, despite Margaery’s constant claims at court that the woman was improving in health. It was a long shot to think that the princess had any useful information, but Sansa was grasping for anything at this point, and this was _something_ to start with.

She had to try.

“You know, Podrick. I just remembered something.” Sansa smiled at the wiry guard. “Jaehaerys asked me to visit Rhaenys in his absence. Could you take me there, tomorrow?”

* * *

It had been easy, almost _too easy_ to convince her guard.

Right before he was to take her to Rhaenys’ chambers, after her morning in court, he expressed some doubt, to his credit.

“Are you sure this is okay with Prince Jaehaerys?”

“Podrick.” She stared at him, adopting a tone of utter seriousness. “I am his wife. And as his wife, it’s my duty to acquaint myself with _all_ of his family members. Besides, it’s as you said! The only one who keeps her company is Jaehaerys, and he’s been gone quite a while. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the company.”

Podrick looked slightly unconvinced, so she pressed further. “I don’t think Jaehaerys would take kindly to you denying Rhaenys a visitor. I only mean to check up on her quickly. We’ll be in and out, before you know it.”

That did the trick. Podrick relented, and soon, they were walking down a winding passage of the castle, towards the princess’ chambers. Predictably there was a guard posted outside her bedroom, and this guard looked upon Sansa with a wary eye.

“Payne.” The guard grunted. “What the hell are you doing down here with the Stark girl?”

Sansa bristled slightly at the lack of titles. Things had changed marginally since her marriage. Only in court did someone address her as ‘Lady Sansa’ and even then, it was clear that they viewed her as clearly inferior to their standing.

“Prince Jaehaerys asked her to see to Princess Rhaenys in his absence.”

She held her breath, as she watched the guard, consider the two of them for another moment. “He’s never asked anyone to do so before.” He replied, flatly.

“Well,” Sansa replied, fidgeting with her hand, behind her back. “I only just became his wife, and there’s a first for everything, isn’t there?”

There was a painful pause, before he stepped aside. “Make it quick.” He muttered. Sansa exhaled, stepping past the threshold, before he could change his mind. Podrick trailed after her.

The room was eerily dark.

All the curtains had been drawn, shutting out any trace of sunlight. The only source of illumination was the flickering of a dying flame within the hearth.

It took a moment before Sansa’s eyes adjusted to the low light, but immediately, her eyes zeroed in on the bed, where Princess Rhaenys lay.

Margaery truly had a talent, for the painting in the drawing room had an uncanny resemblance to the woman that lay before her with few differences. She was thinner and paler than her likeness, but her beauty remained unchanged.

“Who are you?” Rhaenys’ eyes went wide as she registered Sansa’s presence.

Her gaze flickered over to the guard. “Payne, is that you?”

Podrick kneeled. “Princess. I come with the Lady Sansa Stark.”

Sansa watched the princess carefully. Something was _off_. The focus in her dark eyes was absent. Her gaze would stay in one place for a moment too long, and her eyes would blink rapidly at intermittent times. She seemed hardly present, although she was clearly awake. “Is she well?” Sansa whispered to Podrick, when he straightened.

He shook his head, “It’s the medicine. She must have taken it, recently. It always leaves her a bit confused.” There was a lilt of sadness in his voice.

She grimaced. _Poor woman_. Was it worth even trying to see if the princess knew anything? She was obviously disoriented. Still, Sansa had come all this way, she had to at least try.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Sansa’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Rhaenys’ dark eyes swiveled over to her. “My name is Sansa. I am the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. My brother was Robb Stark.”

She hoped that the names would elicit some sort of memory, but the way the princess stared back with an empty expression, confirmed Sansa’s fears.

“I don’t know who you are.” The princess faintly replied. Her body suddenly seized into a coughing fit and Payne rushed forward to pour her water from a pitcher on her bedside table.

Sansa bit down on her lip, disappointed. Princess Rhaenys was truly ill, shut away by the rest of her family. She probably knew less than Sansa did. There was nothing that Sansa could gain from her. It had been a futile effort from the start, but the realization hit harder, as she stood before the poor, confused princess.

“Princess Rhaenys has been ill for quite some time. It’s unlikely she would have met your family, Lady Sansa.” Podrick quietly answered, in lieu of Rhaenys’ silence. “If you’re finished here, we should head back.”

“Payne?” Rhaenys’ small voice came, again. “I want Jon. Can you bring him?”

“Prince Jon is away, Princess.” Rhaenys’ lips turned down at the guard’s response, clearly distressed.

Sansa’s brow furrowed in confusion. Was there a third prince she had been unaware of this entire time? She turned to Podrick. “Jon?”

Podrick looked confused for a moment, before it cleared away with a small smile. “Ah, I guess it makes sense for you not to know. She’s asking for _Jaehaerys_. Jon is the name his mother gave him.”

“Lyanna Stark.” She recalled the name instantly. _Her father’s cousin._

He shifted, uncomfortably. “Yes, his mother, as you know, died shortly after birthing him. The King later gifted him the name Jaehaerys. He preferred everyone to address the prince as Jaehaerys. Only Elia and Rhaenys called him by his Northern name. Even so, they never did so in the presence of the King. He was… _sensitive_ …about the matter.”

Sansa’s attention returned to back to Rhaenys. “They are close then-Jaehaerys and Rhaenys. “ It wasn’t like his relationship with Aegon at all.

“Yes, even from a young age. Prince Jaehaerys looked after her quite a bit. She was always ill, even as a child.” Podrick confirmed with a sad smile.

“I wonder-“

A hand grasped her wrist, jerking her back with a surprising amount of force. She let out a gasp as she was whirled around to face a furious Jaehaerys.

A single thought hurtled across her mind.

_Shit._

Though Jaehaerys matched her height, his broad shoulders gave him the advantage here and he seemed to tower over her with an imposing glare. “What are you doing here?” He demanded, with a growl.

Sansa struggled to find her voice. “I-I was only-“

“How did you get here?” His handsome face rippled into a sneer as he caught sight of her guard. “Payne?”

Podrick went ashen.

“I told him to bring me here.” She blurted unthinkingly. “I was curious about Rhaenys and asked after her. Podrick mentioned that only you visited her, and you’d been gone awhile. So, I thought to check up on her.” The lie flew off her tongue with surprising steadiness.

“I never asked you to do such a thing.” He snapped.

“Jon?” Rhaenys’ voice creeped through the tension between the three of them. 

Something soft flickered into Jaehaerys’ expression, cracking through his fury with Sansa. She’d never seen an expression like that, from him. He stepped past her, towards his half-sister.

“Rhaenys, I’ve just come back.”

The princess was pleased. “You’re safe.” She sighed out, smiling at her brother. Her gaze was still unfocused, and Jaehaerys seemed to take notice of her state.

“I’m safe. Sleep for now, sister.” His left hand reached out to smooth her raven hair back.

It was as though his touch had instantly soothed her. She nestled further into the blankets with another content sigh. Sansa watched with bated breath.

Jaehaerys turned back to Podrick and Sansa, his anger certainly renewed. “You two. Let’s go.” He gritted out.

Sansa didn’t dare to look at Podrick as she trudged out of the room. She felt like a reprimanded toddler with her parent not too far behind.

They walked some distance away from Rhaenys bedchambers, before Jaehaerys unleashed upon her, his crimson cloak whirling about him. “I asked _one thing_ of you. What was that one thing?” He hissed.

She flinched. “It was to-“

He didn’t let her finish. “To stay out of trouble. You _invading_ my sister’s chambers, was clearly against my orders, no? And _you_ ,” He swung on his heel towards Podrick. “Are you so easily manipulated by her pretty face, that all sense left your head? Get one thing clear, Payne. You do not answer to her, you answer to me. We may be married, but she is firstly, a prisoner of House Targaryen.”

“I-I apologize, your Highness. It won’t happen again.”

Sansa glowered at the ground.

“No, I certainly hope not, for your sake.” Jaehaerys snarled out. “Leave us. I’ll handle her for the rest of the day.”

Podrick scurried away and she looked after him in bitter disappointment. There went another missed opportunity. With the way Jaehaerys had just laid into him, Podrick would never trust her words again. She shifted her attention back to Jaehaerys, swallowing hard.

“When did you come back, husband?”

“ _Don’t_.” He growled. “I don’t have time to deal with you. I’m taking you back to your chambers, where you can just sit in one place, and stop giving me a goddamn headache.” Jaehaerys began a punishing pace down the hallway, probably knowing full well, that it would be difficult for her to keep up with her train and heels. She glared at his back, as she lifted her skirts, so she could follow him, properly.

The back of his head made for a tempting target, and she imagined throwing something at it, would have been supremely satisfying. _What rotten luck_ , she sulked. For her to finally gain access to Rhaenys and manage to sweet-talk Podrick, only for Jaehaerys to re-appear, suddenly and ruin everything.

“Oi, Jaehaerys, when did you get back? And you have _Sansa_ here as well. Isn’t this a sweet sight?”

Sansa recognized that smug tone, instantly. Jaehaerys paused his steps, and she mimicked him, slowing down. The prince looked considerably irritated when he twisted towards the direction of his half-brother’s voice.

She turned fully expecting to see the heir but was displeased to see he was not alone. Margaery was on his right arm, and Daenerys, of all people, was by his left side.

Aegon came close to clap his brother upon the shoulder. “Where on earth are the two of you sprinting off to?” His brow raised, deviously. “An afternoon delight?”

A bright flush crept up Sansa’s neck. Jaehaerys rolled his eyes, more annoyed than anything. “Not all of us spend every waking hour either drinking or fucking.”

“Shame.” Aegon grinned, his smile sharp and bright.

“Sorry to put a damper on things, but I have things to attend to. We’ll see you three at dinner with father.” He jerked his head in the opposite direction. “Come, Sansa.”

“Now, now.” Daenerys’ silky voice halted Sansa in her tracks. “Why wait till dinner? It’s been a while since you’ve been home. The three of us are about to have lunch. We can all eat together.” Her lips curved. “You left so soon after the wedding, we were not able to give our congratulations properly.”

Sansa was tempted to snap back and ask why Daenerys had not come by to give her congratulations during the reception. Hadn’t the blonde woman been otherwise preoccupied with the groom, himself?

She swallowed her pride and instead looked towards Jaehaerys. He was the one that had warned Sansa to stay away from Daenerys, but ultimately, she had to do as he instructed.

Jaehaerys’ jaw ticked. “We got married a week ago. There’s no need to celebrate things of the past.”

“Well, brother,” Aegon laughed. “In a majority of circles, one week of marriage is still considered relatively new.” When Jaehaerys did not seem to relent, he turned to his wife. “Margaery tell Jaehaerys he must allow Sansa to have her fun with us. He’s like a child, refusing to share his plaything.”

“Come on,” Margaery encouraged, a dimple forming on her cheek. “You must be hungry after traveling, anyways.”

Jaehaerys slowly nodded, much to Sansa’s acute disappointment. She would have much rather bore Jaehaerys’ anger in the comfort of her bedroom, than be subject to a lunch with the four Targaryens.

“Then it’s settled.” Daenerys beamed, brightly. “I believe it’s already been prepared. Shall we?”

Sansa followed the Targaryens begrudgingly, dragging her feet behind Jaehaerys.

The problem began right when the five of them entered the parlor room. There were only 4 seats around a circular, mahogany table. Daenerys, Aegon, and Margaery seemed oblivious to the seating issue as they took their seats, leaving Jaehaerys and Sansa staring pointedly at the one remaining seat.

Sansa glanced around the parlor room, looking for another chair, but only saw lounge chairs and love seats that were much too heavy for her to carry by herself. She cleared her throat. “I’ll check the next room for an extra chair.”

“Nonsense.” Aegon shook his head with a playful smirk. “What sort of newlyweds are you, two? Just share the seat.”

Sansa reflexively grimaced.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jaehaerys frowned. She dared to let out a tiny exhale. At least Jaehaerys wasn’t entertaining Aegon’s inane idea. “Have the guard grab another chair.”

“No.” Daenerys held out her hand, as the guard stationed at the door, moved to break rank. “You’re the one being ridiculous, Jaehaerys. Newlyweds should be comfortable with each other, no? I’m sure Sansa won’t mind sitting on your lap for just a bit.” Her violet eyes fixed Sansa into place, daring for Sansa to speak against her. 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. Surely, Jaehaerys would say something. Her gaze flickered over to him, but his face was infuriatingly disinterested, as though he was leaving the nonexistent decision up to her. _Bastard_.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably. “No, I wouldn’t mind.” Sansa finally replied, with a terse smile.

“Perfect.” Daenerys lips curved; no doubt pleased with another opportunity to humiliate Sansa.

Jaehaerys took the empty seat, without another word. Sansa’s brow furrowed, as she tried to determine the best way to situate herself upon Jaehaerys, when he impatiently gripped her wrist and pulled her so that she sat squarely across his thighs. She suppressed a squeak, as she felt his hand press against her stomach, securing her closely against his chest.

“So,” The bastard prince rumbled. “How was the castle in my absence?”

The air about the table was tense, but slowly, as the food came out, and the drinks were poured, the discussion took on a livelier tone. Sansa wished she could have paid better attention to their conversation, but it was exceedingly difficult to do so, with Jaehaerys in such close proximity. Every time he gave a huff of irritation at one of Aegon’s bawdy jokes, she could feel the puff of hot air against her neck. Every word he spoke, and slight movement he made, she felt acutely.

“Dear Sansa, “Aegon drawled. Her head snapped up immediately. It was a welcome distraction from noticing Jaehaerys’ every single move. It was perhaps only the second time she had been directly referred to throughout the lunch. “How do you like your time in court with my wife? Has she been treating you well?”

Sansa looked at Margaery. “She’s been very kind, your Highness.” More kind, at least, than Daenerys, that was for sure. “Your wife is a talented artist. I saw her painting in the drawing room.”

Aegon leaned back, “She’s a talented one, indeed.” He turned to his wife. “I remember asking for a solo portrait. You have yet to deliver, Margaery!”

“If you love to look upon yourself, there’s always these fascinating contraptions you can use.” Jaehaerys tossed out. She couldn’t see his face but could hear the smirk in his tone. “I believe they’re called mirrors.”

Daenerys giggled. The sound grated on Sansa’s ears.

Margaery ignored Jaehaerys’ jab. “It is exceedingly difficult to capture your handsome features, your Highness.” She beamed at her husband. “I prefer to look upon the real thing, rather than a poor copy.”

“Beautiful, talented, and a charmer.” Aegon crowed, before taking a long sip of wine. It was his fourth or fifth glass so far. “Jaehaerys, when you get tired of this one,” Aegon jerked his hand in Sansa’s direction. “We can always switch, hm? See what else Margaery has to offer.” He let out a raucous laugh.

Margaery smiled tightly. It didn’t reach her eyes.

Aegon continued, oblivious. “I have to say, I was quite jealous when father gave you the Stark girl. I wanted a turn after all. What do you say little brother? Would you still let me have my chance?”

He leaned forward with a sickening leer. Sansa’s stomach twisted in fear. 

“You forget yourself.” Jaehaerys cut in smoothly. His tone was flippant and cold. “She is _mine_. I don’t intend on sharing her with you.”

“Ah,” Aegon tilted his head. “Yes, she was a reward of sorts, wasn’t it? You told father you were making progress with the patrols. But it’s been 2 months? And that _mutt_ , Robb Stark, still lives.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. This was what she had been waiting for, more information about Robb.

“Aegon,” Margaery warned.

“No, I’m just curious is all, how our capable brother could have allowed for such a thing. He slammed his glass down, burgundy liquid spilling forth and staining the tablecloth. “Surely the greatest fighter of the South can hunt a few dogs down!”

Jaehaerys grip on her waist, tightened. “If you are dissatisfied with our progress, you’re more than welcome to join the patrols, Aegon. Perhaps, you could consider it, if you’re able to step away from your alcohol and gambling for more than a day.”

A cold silence stretched out between the brothers. “You fucking bastard.” Aegon finally sneered. “Everything you have, can be taken so quickly. Any soldier could do your job. The Starks will die with or without your lead. Robb Stark will be decapitated, and his head displayed on these castle walls. Arya Stark and your pretty wife too.” He glared over at her, nastily. “It will be a sight to behold.”

Sansa was going to be ill. She stood up abruptly, feeling as though the walls of the room were caving in on her.

“I-I need air.”

She stepped away from Jaehaerys. “Forgive me.”

She didn’t bother to ask for permission from her husband. He would come after her-no he would not waste his breath- he’d send a guard, and when she returned, he would glare at her with those cold, grey eyes, and reprimand her for being so weak.

Her feet carried her to the gardens, where she found an unoccupied bench. She sat, burying her face into her hands, trying to breath normally. It was no use. She could not stop imagining her siblings, bloodied and decapitated, as her parents has been.

Aegon’s ugly sneer would be burned into her memory. She gasped for air, and it came out sounding like a sob.

“Lady Sansa,”

_Could she not have a moment of peace in this castle?_

She turned with an angry glare, tears bright in her eyes, expecting to see a soldier. She blinked in surprise, seeing not a soldier, but a bald man with a shy smile.

Faint recognition flickered through her as she studied the expectant man. She’d met him before. Perhaps he’d been a Lord that had greeted her during her wedding reception? For the life of her, she could not recall a name.

“Ah, you’ve forgotten me.” He smiled, recognizing her confusion. “I do like maintaining a low profile in King’s Landing. I’m Lord Varys, we met in court, very briefly. I’ve been meaning to speak to you, actually.”

Sansa frowned, not bothering to hide her impatience. If this man was expecting a lengthy chat, he was sorely mistaken. “I’m sorry, I must be going.” She got up from the stone bench. “I should be getting back to my husband. It was nice meeting you-“

“Lady Sansa,” He interrupted, uncaringly. “Your brother, Robb, is safe and well.”

Every nerve ending on her skin seemed to come to life at once.

She glanced around quickly, for any sign of a guard, when there was none, her gaze snapped back to Lord Varys, who held a serene expression. He was waiting for her to respond.

 _Who was this man_? Her immediate instinct was to demand more information, but a part of her held back, fearfully. She did not know this man. She had no idea if he was trustworthy. He could have been sent by Rhaegar to fool her into thinking she had a chance of hope- or maybe Jaehaerys had sent this man-

“You seem to have many questions.” Lord Varys intoned, slipping into her thoughts. “We don’t have much time, sadly. What I can assure you, is that you can trust me.”

Sansa’s mouth twisted down. “I’m sure Rhaegar Targaryen said something similar before he beheaded my mother and father.”

“Rhaegar Targaryen is mad, and unfit to rule.” Varys retorted. “I want to see him gone as much as you do.”

Her stomach fluttered. This was what she had been hoping for-some type of ally, proof that she wasn’t alone in the den of dragons. “Prove it.” She rasped.

Varys only inclined his head, a small smile on his face, as though he had expected her reaction. “Your brother said you were a careful one.” He paused. “Alright, you gave him a scar on Christmas Day. You were 8, he was 11 and it happened when you tackled him on the steps. You two had a disagreement. He had used your doll for target practice, and you were inconsolable. Do I have that right?”

Sansa’s blood ran cold. No one knew that story but the Starks. There hadn’t been any servants around, when Robb had been injured, Mother had been the one to stumble upon a teary Sansa and a badly injured Robb. She had even begged her mother not to tell her father and swore to Robb that she would never hurt him, horrified after seeing him bleed so much. “W-where is the scar?” her voice wobbled.

“His left knee.” Varys replied without hesitation.

She exhaled, shakily. The tears came freely now. She had tried so hard not to cry, till now, but the possibility of having someone she could trust, had seemed so far away, was finally realized, and she hadn’t realized how hopeless she had felt all along.

“Robb’s safe?” She asked in a small voice while rubbing at her eyes.

“He is.”

“What about Arya?”

Varys grimaced. “We haven’t been able to locate her.” Sansa’s heart sank. “But, thankfully, neither have the Targaryen forces. She was able to escape Winterfell, when the soldiers came, we haven’t had any sightings since.”

“We?” Sansa blinked. “There’s more people, like you?”

The lord paused. “Lady Sansa, did you ever stop to think why would Rhaegar marry his favored general to the daughter of his enemy?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa despaired. “I haven’t had the time to care about the politics of this marriage, when I’ve just been trying to survive.”

Varys pressed his lips together, looking around him once, before coming closer. “They’ve tried their best to stifle any mention of it in court, but why else do you think Jaehaerys must come and go so frequently?”

Sansa thought it was obvious. “He’s hunting for Robb and Arya.”

The man shook his head. “He’s not just hunting for your siblings. He’s hunting down _any_ insurgent. He is the commander of the armed forces and it’s his responsibility to quiet them. Every time he leaves, is a sign that the rebellion fights on.”

Sansa paled. “The rebellion?” Her throat had gone dry, her mind overwhelmed with so many questions. _There was a rebellion. People were fighting Rhaegar. She was not alone. There was hope._

Varys nodded. “If we can give the Mad King credit, he knows how to spring a surprise coup better than most. Eddard’s sudden death threw the North into disarray. The Targaryen forces used that chaos to overtake Winterfell. But your parents were beloved leaders. There was always bound to be some sort of push back. In the beginning, it wasn’t easy, people were scared. When you’re dealing with Rhaegar’s madness, one fears for their life, naturally. People didn’t even know if it was worth to fight back. After all, who could take Eddard Stark’s place with all of his children either imprisoned or killed?”

“Then Robb escaped.” Sansa exhaled in disbelief.

“Yes, it was quite unexpected.” Varys acknowledged, wryly. “But it was exactly what we needed. What remained of your father’s loyal men, united under your brother. We’re still no match for the Targaryen forces, but given time, we may be able to strike back.”

“Where does my marriage to Jaehaerys come into play?” Sansa frowned.

“Rhaegar was furious when Robb escaped. He knew it would provide the rebellion a leader. Who better to lead the angry mob, than the Northern Prince, himself? Both of you were meant to be executed.” Varys stated, plainly. “When Robb escaped, and most likely joined with the rebels, it was brought to Rhaegar’s attention that killing you would pose an issue.”

“How so?” Sansa was puzzled. She was negligible in the grand scheme of things. Robb was the trueborn heir. He was the one that mattered.

“You underestimate your value, Lady Sansa.” He smiled. “If you died, the rebellion would make a martyr out of you. People who couldn’t have been persuaded to join forces with Robb, might be pushed if another Stark child were to die at the hands of Rhaegar. Your brother would certainly, never forgive such a crime. Jaehaerys advised Rhaegar that your death could be the right incentive to push the North out of their hold.”

“So, Rhaegar came up with the next best thing.” Sansa concluded, dully.

“Exactly, he married you off to his bastard son. He made you a Targaryen. Perhaps he’ll try to spin the narrative of a happy couple, make it appear as though you are even in love with your husband. It might work to instill doubts in the mind of some rebels. Varys shrugged. “Even if that’s not the case, his priority is avoiding the consequences that could come about with your death.”

She was silent, absorbing the deluge of information Varys had given her. Robb was working with rebels up North. Arya was alive but had yet to join Robb. As for herself, she was still stuck in King’s Landing for the time being. “So now what?” Sansa pressed. “When can I join Robb up North?”

“It’s not so simple, Lady Sansa.” Varys hesitated. “As you can imagine, it’s been incredibly difficult with the amount of security surrounding you. Rest assured, we are working hard to get you out. It may be another month or so before we can take action.”

Sansa let out a huff of frustration. It was hard to be patient. She knew that she should be feeling only grateful that that she wasn’t alone and that there was some sort of plan in motion. But another month in King’s Landing? She imagined another month of verbal humiliation, waiting idly by, while Robb worked with the rebellion, and Arya was all alone. “Let me help.” She blurted out.

Varys blinked, clearly thrown. “Help?”

“I don’t want to just _sit_ by while Arya and Robb are out there.” Sansa’s mind slowed down long enough for a rough idea to take form. “I have a unique advantage. I’m within the castle walls. I could gather information- “

“You are not to involve yourself.” Varys cut in, resolutely. “My orders were clear.”

“ _Forget_ _the damn orders._ ” Sansa hissed under her breath. “I can help.” She insisted. “If I have to spend another afternoon having mindless conversation over tea, I will lose it. I can do more.”

“It isn’t safe or smart for you to get involved. You’re watched at all times. Even meeting like this was a gamble and out of sheer luck.” Varys replied, his eyes flashing. 

He paused, carefully contemplating his next words. “Lady Sansa, I’m not the only one loyal to the wolves in King’s Landing. I can’t reveal their identity, you understand all that is at stake here, after all.”

Her mouth parted in shock as his words washed over her. _He couldn’t possibly mean-_

Varys nodded gravely. “We already have an informant on the inside. So please, for now, stay safe and lay low. We will take care of things.”

He turned to face her fully, something like a smile forming upon his face.

“Winter is coming, Lady Sansa. And we will be prepared, when it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! i got it out one day earlier than expected huzzahhhh  
> it was still quite the wait so i hope this extended chapter makes up for it?  
> i'm very thankful for such nice feedback from you guys! i hope you continue to enjoy the story :')
> 
> EDIT: next update: june 29th or earlier (sorry to push this back, but med school is currently kicking my butt, i'll try to make it worth the wait!)  
> xx


	6. the wolf grows restless

Sansa Stark had come to the damning conclusion that if she wanted to be useful, she needed her husband.

The decision did not come easily, nor was it made lightly, but after quite some thought, it seemed the only reasonable plan of action in mind after her talk with Varys.

The knowledge that not one, but two of her siblings lived, and that there was a growing rebellion behind the Stark name ignited her determination. The Targaryens had managed till now to isolate her from the truth. Their hold over the North was tenuous at best, and though they had managed to eliminate half of her family, the half that remained, including herself, refused to break and was out for blood.

Sansa dared to feel _hopeful_.

She had reluctantly agreed to lay low, but it was a promise that she could not keep. She had not survived this long, to merely wait upon others to do the heavy lifting.

Varys had warned Sansa to stay away from any information-gathering. He was worried that she would draw undue attention to herself. And she could respect his worries. But if this plan went accordingly, it wouldn’t attract any suspicion. After all, any attempts to get close to Jaehaerys wouldn’t seem unnatural to an outsider. She was his _wife_ after all.

Sansa realized she had been going about things completely wrong, always skittering away from Jaehaerys and wishing him gone on another patrol. When all along, she should have _used_ him.

Her husband was the general of the armed forces, and Rhaegar’s most trusted son. It was reasonable to assume that any sensitive information, regarding the Starks, Jaehaerys would be privy to it all. If she managed to get close to him, then perhaps, he would slip, and a vital piece of information could be passed down to the insurgents.

The issue (and it was a large one) was exactly, how, Sansa was going to manage to get close to her ever-aloof husband.

He’d had a dalliance with Daenerys, so he wasn’t immune to a woman’s charms, but he hardly seemed affected by her. When Jaehaerys was back from his patrols they would share his bed, but he seemed determined not to touch her, and slept curled up against the edge of his bed, as though even the thought of accidentally brushing against her in the night was abhorrent. Indeed, it was as though Jaehaerys was set on avoiding any type of interaction with her whatsoever. In the early morning he left to spar, leaving before she would wake, and he would only return to their chambers when she had cleaned up for bed, ready to retire for the night. She could count the number of words he’d spoken to her all week on both her hands.

The task of trying to use a man, that refused to touch her and seemed determined to ignore altogether, was a frustrating endeavor. Sansa was reluctant to give up, but it seemed the inevitable conclusion.

She unenthusiastically returned to her daily monotony, unsure of how to proceed next.

On a rare, gloomy morning, Jaehaerys had summoned for her while she was in court. It was the first time he’d done such a thing, preferring to leave her be, so Sansa was apprehensive, and she remained so, when she got to their chambers and saw Pycelle lurking about.

Jaehaerys had called it a wellness check-up, but Sansa found it odd. She hadn’t complained of any symptoms, nor had the prince told her that such an exam was going to take place.

She watched in confusion, as Pycelle got to work with his preliminary testing, but the true purpose of his visit became clear after a single question from the grey-haired physician.

“Have you bled this month?”

Sansa’s mouth twisted. She looked over at Jaehaerys who seemed unfazed by the question. He had most-likely known all along and hadn’t thought to warn her. _Of course, he hadn’t._

“Lady Sansa,” Pycelle’s face had pinched up in impatience.

She blinked. “Yes, I bled. Just a few days ago.”

“I see.” His tone was noticeably tinged with disappointment. There was a _scritch-scritch_ of Pycelle’s pen as he scrawled some notes down.

“And how often do you and the prince have intercourse?”

Sansa did everything in her power not to notice Jaehaerys in her periphery. She lied through her teeth. “Routinely.” 

“Be more specific, please.”

“The prince is gone often.” Sansa gritted out. “But, when he returns, I do my- _duty_ , nightly, until he departs for his next assignment.”

“Each time you have intercourse, it’s done purely with the intent of making an heir, correct?”

Sansa frowned. “I don’t understand the question.”

The elderly man paused. “What I mean to say is, _erm_ , to put it delicately, is the position-“

“- _yes_ , we’ve _solely_ been trying for an heir.” Jaehaerys interrupted, tersely. He advanced closer, his arms, crossed, tightly. Pycelle’s meaning suddenly dawned upon her and she resisted a grimace.

Pycelle nodded, satisfied. He looked at Jaehaerys. “And she is still going on her daily walks, and eating regularly?”

“Yes.” Jaehaerys confirmed again with an impatient nod. “Are we done, here, Pycelle? I told you, it would be pointless to have this discussion, so early on in the marriage.”

“I suppose. ” The grey-haired man, shifted. “Your father did stress the importance of being – _efficient_. Perhaps if you were to lay with her more often or-”

“My father has already relayed his concerns to me.” Jaehaerys responded, coolly. “If you’re done questioning how often, and in what position I fuck the Stark girl in, I think we’re finished here.

He added, with a cold sneer. “I’ll be sure to let my father know how helpful you were.”

The physician blanched at Jaehaerys’ choice words. “Of course, your Highness.” He inclined, his head, and scurried to gather his things quickly. 

Sansa watched, thoroughly amused, as he bowed hurriedly, and left quickly, the door nearly hitting him on the way out.

“Goodness, you have a way with words.”

“Sorry,” Jaehaerys grunted. “Did you _want_ to hear ways that we could improve our non-existent attempts at an heir?” He searched his pockets for a cigarette and lit it, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as he took his first inhale.

“I don’t suppose Pycelle encourages such a habit.” Sansa drawled.

“I think it’s pretty clear I could give a fuck what that old man has to say.” Jaehaerys retorted flatly. He looked at her directly, as he took his next inhale, daring her to make another comment.

Sansa suddenly realized that this had been the longest conversation they’d had in a while. Perhaps, this was her opportunity to finally get him alone, so she could try to pry any piece of information from him. She worried her lower lip, before inhaling slightly, trying to steady her nerves.

“Will you be accompanying me in the gardens today, for my walk?”

He withdrew the cigarette from his lips. “is that a question or an invitation?”

“An invitation.”

Jaehaerys paused, brow quirking slightly upwards. “Is Payne not sufficient company?”

Sansa gave an indelicate snort. “He hasn’t so much blinked in my direction. Not after you tore into him.”

He regarded her silently. Sansa held her breath, certain he would call her out. Finally, he straightened. “I don’t have anything better to do, I suppose.”

* * *

Podrick was surprised to see Jaehaerys before he accompanied the two of them to the gardens. Nonetheless, he greeted the prince with a steep bow, no doubt still smarting over the last time the prince had criticized him. He maintained a further distance than he usually did when it was just Sansa on her walks, presumably since Jaehaerys was right at her shoulder.

“I hope you were not too harsh in your punishment of Payne,” Sansa lightly commented as she side-stepped a tree root that had burrowed its way into the pavement.

Jaehaerys glanced back at the soldier for a fraction of a second. “I was kind enough. He is still living and able to remain in your service, is he not?” He turned to her with a curl of his lip. “If you are so concerned for him, perhaps you should not have involved him to begin with.”

Sansa bristled. She had no regrets. With her family’s livelihood at stake, certain measures had to be taken. Her previous plan had failed and now she was onto her next. She had to try her best to get any sort of useful information from Jaehaerys.

“Podrick mentioned your mother gave you another name.”

She watched him carefully, seeing his grey eyes flash with a flurry of emotions that were gone as soon as they appeared. “Perhaps I was too kind. “The prince amended with a scoff. “Payne seems awfully comfortable sharing information that isn’t his to give out.”

“It isn’t a bad name.”

He snorted, “You think that because it’s a _Northern_ name.” He spat out the word ‘Northern’ as though it were a curse.

“It’s certainly easier to pronounce than _Jaehaerys_.” She dragged out his name with purposeful exaggeration. “I would think you had trouble pronouncing it as a child.” Targaryen names were a mouthful.

Sansa found herself imagining a young Jaehaerys, wandering the halls of King’s Landing. He had probably been just as dour, with a permanent pout and prone to sulky tantrums.

“I have gone by Jaehaerys since birth. I haven’t known a different name.”

 _Liar_. Podrick had made it clear that Elia and Rhaenys had preferred to call him Jon. He’d even responded to it, when they’d been with Rhaenys.

Sansa tried another subject. “Is Princess Rhaenys doing any better?”

Jaehaerys’ lips twitched. “You seem determined to discuss subjects that are not any of your concern. Was that your purpose for dragging me out here, today?”

Sansa immediately scowled. It had been absolutely naïve of her to think that she had a chance at seducing a man who had the emotional affect of a glacier. He was giving her absolutely no openings. “You know as well as I do that, I could never force your hand at something. You accompanied me today, solely on your whim.” She snapped back.

“And I’m beginning to regret my decision.” Jaehaerys countered. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions.”

Irritation flared to life within her. “It’s called having a conversation, your Highness.” She replied, severely. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten how to have one, since we usually sit in silence.”

Sansa tried to temper her anger, but it was no use. Her plan was already spiraling away from her. She was supposed to get him under her thumb. Instead he was getting underneath her _skin_. 

“Am I supposed to believe that you would willingly want to have a congenial conversation with the man you were forced to marry?” Jaehaerys’ assessed her with a tilt of his head. “You want something, Sansa Stark.”

Her mouth twisted downwards, in displeasure. She should have remembered just how frighteningly keen and observant he could be. “Doesn’t everybody, want something?” She retorted, hotly.

Jaehaerys stared at her intently. “So, what is it that you want?”

_To be rid of you. To be rid of your entire family. For King’s Landing to burn to the ground._

Her vengeful thoughts stalled long enough for her to retort back, “Answers.” _I want answers._ She glared up at him, defiantly.

He did not immediately respond. Instead, silence followed, and the only noise for a moment was the sound of her heels clicking against the pavement.

“Okay,” his low voice rumbled, finally. The back of his left hand reached up to scrub lazily at his beard.

“Okay?”

“I’ll let you ask me, let’s say 3 questions, hm?”

Sansa’s blue eyes narrowed. “And what’s the caveat?”

“No caveat.” He smirked. “I’ll even answer honestly.”

Her mouth opened, and then shut. _What was he playing at?_

“Weren’t you just demanding answers, 20 seconds ago? And now you can’t speak?”

He taunts were infuriating. Jaehaerys was clearly baiting her. “Fine.” She bit, with a roll of her eyes. “Who do you despise most in your family?”. There was no way he would answer any question she had, truthfully. He didn’t have a sincere bone in his body.

Jaehaerys startled her when he replied almost instantaneously. “Aegon.” She looked over; mouth parted in surprise. “Was that not obvious?” he asked, drolly. “A waste of a question, in my opinion. 2 more questions, Stark.”

_Was he serious about answering her?_

Her brow furrowed. She raised her gaze, decisively. _Fine, she could play this game, as well._

“Why are you disobeying your father and refusing to make an heir?”

“Because, I refuse to touch you.” He replied, simply.

“Why?” she pressed. 

His gaze flickered to meet hers directly. “Do you want that to be your third question?”

“ _That’s_ \- ugh, never mind.” She glowered. “No, I have another third question.”

“Make it count, then.”

Sansa impulsively pulled at his arm, just forceful enough that he stopped to stare down at her, facing her fully, now. She searched his grey eyes, her fingers pressing slightly into the sleeve of his shirt.

“How close are you to finding my brother Robb?”

He smiled, faintly. That wasn’t a good sign, she realized with a sinking feeling. It was clear he was smug about _something_.

“Close enough, Stark. We’re close _enough_.”

* * *

Sansa returned to their chambers with a growing sense of dread.

_Close enough?_

What the hell did that mean? Did it mean that they had made progress that Varys and the insurgents were unaware of? Did she need to find Varys to warn him? There was no way that she could wander through the many hallways of the castle, just searching for one man. Podrick would be sure to report her as soon as she stepped away from the room.

She ran both hands through her hair, feeling the urge to tug at her locks in utter frustration.

_Useless._

She was in the center of it all, and still so _useless._

Jaehaerys was a hopeless dead end. He knew she wanted information and he was content to string her along with vague answers that successfully instilled fear within her. There was no way she was getting close to Aegon or Daenerys. Rhaenys had been useless. The only remaining option was-

Sansa suddenly bolted upwards.

Of course, _Margaery_ was an option. Margaery was practically a Targaryen herself.

Her mind moved in double-time. Sansa _knew_ where Margaery’s room was. It didn’t hurt to slip in for a quick look around. Out of everybody in court, Sansa knew Margaery’s schedule best. She was usually still in court around this time. It seemed stunningly feasibly the more she thought about it.

Sansa worried her bottom lip. It was possible that it would be all for naught, but she couldn’t afford to think like that. Any bit of information would be priceless for the North, especially now that she knew Jaehaerys and his men were getting close to Robb.

Margaery’s room was relatively close to her own, so even if she was unable to find anything, she’d be back in her room before anybody was wiser.

She glanced at the pendulum clock at the corner of her room. She had a short window of time, but she wouldn’t need much of it anyways. The only remaining issue was Podrick who guarded her door under Jaehaerys’ orders. She bit down on her lower lip. _How could she get him out of the way?_

 _Sickness_. She had to fake some sort of sickness. That would get him to leave his post. He’d have to leave the wing to fetch Pycelle, and that would buy her more than enough time.

Suddenly, she remembered a trick from Arya. Her little sister had always been rather proud of it, though Sansa had been disgusted when she’d first learned what Arya always did to get herself out of court engagements.

_“I don’t do it often.” Arya had crossed her arms, defensively. “But, sometimes, mother won’t budge unless she sees me ill like that.”_

_“It’s cruel to do to her.” Sansa scolded. “She gets so worried for you. How can you even get your body to just-“She trailed off, wrinkling her nose in distaste._

_“It’s simple.” Arya laughed. “Really, I can show you if you’re curious.”_

Sansa swallowed hard, stepping towards the bathroom and hovering over the chamber pot with uncertainty. Gods, she hoped this worked. She extended her index finger and inhaled deeply, before sticking it into her mouth, and pressing up against the back of her throat. Her stomach contracted immediately, and she audibly gagged, though no bile surged in her throat.

She removed her finger with a groan, knowing she would have to try once more.

Steadying herself, she stuck her finger back in, and went deeper. Her eyes watered in slight discomfort, but it did the trick. She withdrew her finger from her mouth, clutching at the sides of the chamber pot, as a small amount of bile came forth, leaving an unsightly trail on her chin. Sansa made sure not to wipe away at it, as she got up, unsteadily, heading for her bedroom door.

“Podrick,” she called breathlessly, as she opened the door.

The guard turned, his eyes widening as he caught sight of her face. The stench got to him, and he raised his arm to cover his nostrils. “M’lady, are you unwell?”

“Yes,” Sansa tried to make her voice small and weak. “Would you fetch Pycelle for me? It may be quite serious.”

He glanced around reluctantly, not wanting to leave his post. “I could wait for his Highness to return-“

Impulsively, Sansa faked a retch, bringing her hand up to her mouth. “Oh _god_ , I feel worse than before.” She mumbled with a convincing groan.

“Stay in your room, ma’am and rest. I’ll be back.” He gave her such a genuine look of concern, that Sansa _almost_ felt bad for her lie. But he turned on his heel and was sprinting down the hallway, before she could say another word.

As soon as Podrick disappeared past the bend of the hallway, she rubbed away the grime on her lips with the sleeve of her gown and made her way towards Margaery’s chambers. Only her own room, had a posted guard, and so she walked by easily, coming to the front of Margaery’s room within a few minutes. Sansa glanced behind her shoulder, before slipping in.

Margaery’s jasmine perfume hung heavily in the air. Her room was perfectly kept, not a thing out of place, everything folded neatly, even the pillows upon the lounge chaise were perfectly plumped and positioned.

She ignored all that, making a beeline for the woman’s desk.

A vase of wilted roses sat on the right corner, presumably from Aegon. There wasn’t much else at the top of the desk, but there were a few charcoal pencils and sheets of paper that had the beginnings of landscapes, and some portrait sketches of people that Sansa couldn’t recognize just based off of the rough detail.

Sansa carefully sifted through the papers, but there was nothing important there. She opened the drawers next, but it was only more drawing tools and some loose ribbons. She let out an audible huff of frustration. Was it possible that there would be nothing here, as well? Was this just like Rhaenys, just another dead end?

 _No,_ she narrowed her eyes, _to hell with that._

She knelt on the ground, carefully feeling the underside of the desk. She ran her hand along the wood and towards the right edge, she felt a subtle, but unmistakable, ridge.

Her breath caught in anticipation. It was a hidden compartment.

Her nail found the edge of the ridge, and with just the right amount of pressure, the wood fell out of its place, revealing a small collection of papers.

Sansa’s heart soared, feeling a rush of validation. _This is what she had been looking for!_ To take such great lengths to conceal papers, there was no doubt that there was information that would benefit the rebellion here. Sansa reached for the papers eagerly, excitement thrumming throughout her entire body.

She stood on her feet, trying to organize the papers together. One particular paper stuck out at an oblique angle, and she pulled it out to look at it.

Her eyes widened, and her heart caught in her throat.

Robb Stark, captured in delicate lines, and meticulous shading, stared back at her.

There was no mistaking it. His wild curls and boyish grin had been deftly replicated with precision and care. It was the same artistic style as the art piece displayed in the drawing room – Margaery’s style.

Sansa’s mouth went dry. _Margaery- and Robb?_ Her knees felt unsteady, as she placed the drawing to the side, looking closely at one the handwritten letters.

She realized, with a growing pit in her stomach that she recognized the author’s hurried, slanted scrawl.

_M,_

_I wish I was not so in love with the most beautiful woman King’s Landing has seen for decades. There has never been a more difficult test of my jealousy and impatience then seeing you in court surrounded by your flock of admirers._

_If you have time for one more admirer, our usual place at midnight?_

_Yours,_

_R_

“Oh, _Sansa,”_ Margaery’s disappointed voice materialized behind her, and Sansa whirled on her heel.

The papers fell out Sansa’s trembling hands. Robb’s countenance landed face-up between the two women.

“Of course, _you_ would lack the sense not to rummage through my things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks around the corner nervously*
> 
> sorry for the late update, i really tried to get this out on time, but it was SO difficult to write this chapter for some reason!! had to be a bit of a slower/shorter chapter, but rest assured, the ending of this chapter will kick into a series of events that will speed up the pace hehe, hope you guys enjoyed!! 
> 
> next update: july 8th or earlier


	7. a winter rose unfurls

_\--_

(Margaery)

_“Leave him.” Robb’s voice was rough with sleep, but there was a soft tenderness underneath it all, that pulled at her, sending an aching pain through her chest._

_She rolled over, onto her left shoulder, so she could face him, directly. The ache in her chest only increased tenfold. He was smiling so sincerely at her. Gods, she could not bear it. Her fingers, reached up to lightly trace the shadow of a beard on his jawline, refusing to meet his piercing blue gaze. “I cannot. You know this.” She said, thickly._

_“Your parents want you to be queen and you can be queen.” His warm arm came around, wrapping tight around her waist. His lips pressed softly against her forehead. “My queen.”_

_Logically, Margaery knew that such a thing could not come to pass. There was no use being married to a prince up North. Her parents held land in the South. They relied on the connections made in the Southern Kingdom to flourish. There was no real benefit of marrying a Northern man, prince or not. Tyrells only settled for the best, and the best for their family was indisputably, Aegon Targaryen._

_But, being with Robb, defied logic. His smile and easy laugh made it easy to forget the politics and the diplomatic niceties that had been required of her since she was born. She should have known he would be trouble, from the moment he flashed that playful grin at her in court. It had been hopelessly naïve to think she could have her fun with Robb Stark, without any consequence coming from it._

_How stupid she’d been._

_“A rose of Highgarden would perish in the Northern cold.” She whispered into his bare chest._

_Robb chuckled, and she relished feeling his laughter vibrate throughout his body. “Winter roses.” He mumbled into her hair._

_“Hm?”_

_“We have winter roses up North.” He clarified. Margaery felt his fingers running through her brown curls. She loved it when he did that. “They’re very pretty. Someday, I’ll show you.”_

_Someday._

_Margaery nestled closer to him, trying not to think about the what-ifs and if-onlys. She knew deep in her chest, that day would never happen. It was only a matter of time before King Rhaegar gave his approval for her and Aegon’s proposal._

_“Someday, then.” She whispered, content to live in this lie, if only for a peaceful moment in his arms._

_\--_

(Sansa)

It wasn’t possible.

_Robb and Margaery?_

And yet, the evidence had been laid out in front of her, neatly, in the form of a damning letter and an equally damning sketch of her brother.

Margaery stooped down to snatch up the papers that had fallen out of her hand. She pointedly ignored Sansa, as she moved to place it back in its original hiding spot, beneath her desk.

Meanwhile, Sansa struggled to form a coherent sentence. “I-I had no idea, Robb, he-how long did you two- I never knew- “

“That was intentional.” Margaery snapped, standing up. “Robb and I were-“She looked away, an uncharacteristic tenderness coloring her pretty face. “-we were _complicated_.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. Regardless if the Tyrell woman refused to categorize her relationship with Robb, she’d just shown more genuine affection for him than she’d ever seen the woman express for her current husband. “But you and Aegon married- “

And you married Jaehaerys.” Margaery retorted back. “Does that mean you love him? My family had bent over backwards to ensure that I was a top candidate for Aegon’s wife. I would have been ruined if I had jeopardized their plans. “

Sansa tried to think back to her and Robb’s time in King’s Landing before the execution had happened, if Robb had given anything away, but she came up empty. He’d always joked and smirked about spending time with women in court, and _sure_ with Margaery’s obvious beauty, she had come up once or twice, but Robb had never mentioned Margaery more than any other woman. If it hadn’t been for the letter and drawing, she would have refused to believe the woman in front of her.

Robb had most likely felt justified in wanting to protect Margaery, by keeping their relationship private, but she still couldn’t help but feel hurt by his secrecy. Of all her siblings, she’d always felt closest to Robb. It hurt how blindsided she was by all of this.

Sansa wanted to ask more questions, but Margaery wasn’t finished with her lecture, still vibrating with fury. “It blows my mind how utterly, and _stupidly_ reckless you are. If you had been caught by anybody else, you would have been thrown back in the cells. Do you _know_ how often Aegon comes through my room?”

On the receiving end of Margaery’s withering glare, she felt 2 inches tall.

“I-I was trying to help my brother. Jaehaerys said he was close to finding Robb. I panicked, and I just-I thought you would have information that would-” Sansa trailed off, realizing just how little thought she had put into this plan. She’d acted purely on instinct and Margaery was right. If it had been anybody but her, and she’d been found out, it would have been impossible to explain away. She looked away, sullenly. “I was trying to help Robb. I didn’t expect that you had the same intent, all along.”

Varys should have told her the spy was Margaery. Did the two of them think her so unreliable that she would have run to Jaehaerys or Aegon with the knowledge of who the mole was? A surge of indignant anger burned bright in her chest. Of all of them, she had the most to gain from an ally, and the most to lose if the spy had been put in danger. Why did they all assume she was some stupid, helpless little girl, who couldn’t handle the truth?

“All this time,” Sansa was trembling. “All this time, I thought I was alone. You l _et_ me believe I was alone.” She couldn’t help the accusatory tone that enveloped her voice.

The anger fell away from Margaery’s face, and her expression softened slightly. “I _couldn’t_ have told you.” She replied after a painful moment. “I had to look out for myself, as well. All it takes is one rumor or whisper to land in Rhaegar’s ear, and his paranoia would have been my death sentence.” To her credit, she did appear apologetic.

“I wouldn’t have said anything.” Sansa said, fiercely.

“I know you wouldn’t have purposefully said anything.” Margaery agreed. “But all it takes is a little pressure. You could have been tortured, put under duress, and something may have come out. And I thought too, that the less you knew, the safer you were and I-“She swallowed hard, “I promised Robb to try-“ Her voice cracked with emotion, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

It was odd how unrecognizable Margaery had suddenly become. Sansa couldn’t believe that the woman who had kissed the Mad King’s cheek and cheerily called him ‘father’ was the same woman who had loved her brother enough to risk everything to free him.

There was no use for the anger that Sansa wanted to feel towards the woman for leaving her in the dark. It was difficult to swallow her frustrations, but Margaery had been alone too, unable to be with Robb and married off to a man who routinely made clear his disregard for his wife. She was alone with her crime, rightly terrified that one day the Targaryens would find her out.

“Will you tell me?” Sansa asked quietly. “How you saved Robb?” Podrick was bound to return soon, but there were too many questions that she wanted answered.

Margaery was hesitant, but she nodded after a short pause. “Before, I had made peace with my parents’ wishes in marrying Aegon. I had even fallen in love with the idea of being queen. But your brother took me by surprise.” She smiled sadly. “I met him, and it sort of all fell apart. I had met Aegon, and well, you know how he is. He’s charming and handsome, but it is easy to see how vile he can be. Robb was his opposite in that respect. He was sweet and honest and I- “She swallowed, hard. “Truthfully, I did not realize how strongly I felt, till everything had happened.”

“When they executed your parents, I was sick to my stomach. I had no idea that they planned to do such a thing, I swear it, Sansa. But, Aegon came to me, after the execution, and gloated of his plans, he told me that he couldn’t wait to see Robb’s death next.”

“I didn’t think twice about it.” She let out a ragged breath. “I had to act quickly. One of my handmaidens, she’d been with me from birth, and so she was more than willing to do as I bid. She was able to get close to the guards and discern their schedules; it was easy to weed out the weak link, and from there, my maid was able to obtain a skeleton key.” Margaery’s was trembling. “I took the key, and late at night, went to free him, while my maid distracted the guard. When I saw him, it was-he’d been beaten and he looked so-“It was then, that the Tyrell woman faltered again, her mask cracked, leaving only anguish behind.

Without another thought, Sansa launched herself at the woman, embracing her tightly. She heard a muffled noise of protest from Margaery, but she ignored it, pulling her close.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the crook of her neck. The scent of jasmine nearly brought her to tears. “Thank you for saving him.” She repeated, weak with relief.

“Sansa, don’t _pull_ at me.” Margaery’s voice came firm and reprimanding, yet when Sansa extricated herself, apologetically, her expression was gentler, than she’d ever seen it.

“You shouldn’t do that.” The brunette muttered.

“Do what?”

“Thank me like that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sansa frowned, puzzled. “Because of you, my brother is alive.”

Margaery’s face hardened. “But I left _you_ behind.” Sansa flinched.

“You two were imprisoned separately with a different rotation of guards, and so I decided it was simpler to save Robb. I didn’t know you, but I still knew you were _innocent_ , and did nothing.” Her tone went flat, and her face, cold. “That’s why I don’t deserve your thanks.”

A lump surfaced in Sansa’s throat. It had burned at her for so long, knowing that Robb had been saved first. She’d thought it had been solely due to his status as the firstborn heir, but now she knew. Margaery had loved him, so she’d focused on him. Margaery hadn’t known her. The abandonment still stung, but surprisingly less so, knowing Margaery’s motivation had been driven by her feelings, not simply based on Robb’s importance to the Northern Kingdom.

“Robb refused to leave without you.” Margaery continued. “But it was impossible for him to get to you, without exposing himself and I forced him to go. He made me promise to get you out.”

Sansa’s chest warmed. She knew Robb wouldn’t have just abandoned her without a second thought.

“I fully intended to keep my promise, but after it was found out that Robb got out, your security was doubled. There wasn’t any way for me to get to you. I was terrified Rhaegar was going to execute you. Thankfully, Jaehaerys was to marry you.”

“T _hankfully_ ,” Sansa drawled at the mention of the bastard prince.

Margaery arched a brow. “He’s soft on you.” She noted, briskly. “You’re more than entitled to feel negatively about him, but it’s not him you have to worry about of all the Targaryens.”

Sansa bristled. “You mean to say that _General_ Jaehaerys, isn’t a dangerous man? Did you not hear the entire reason for me breaking into your room? Jaehaerys _said_ he was close to finding Robb.”

The Tyrell woman looked doubtful. “Jaehaerys is dangerous, I’m not denying it. But he’s been saying he’s been close to recovering Robb for months now to appease Rhaegar. I understand why you’re concerned, Sansa, but I’ve heard this from him, before. Even if Jaehaerys truly was close, what could we do, aside from actively preventing Jaehaerys from joining the patrol? Even then, his men likely have the relevant intel and could easily finish the job for him. We have to trust in Robb. He’s gotten this far, already.”

Sansa lips twisted downward in dissatisfaction.

“You need to worry about what you _can_ control. Right now, that’s your own safety.” Margaery’s expression was solemn. “I meant what I said. It’s not Jaehaerys _you_ have to be worried about. You have to tread lightly. Daenerys is just waiting for an opportunity to pounce.”  
  
“Daenerys?” Sansa drew back in confusion. She recalled Jaehaerys’ similar warning.

“She despises you.” Margaery informed her in a matter-of-fact tone. “That can’t come as a surprise.”

“No, but I _was_ hoping her hatred would abate.”

Margaery snorted. “There’s nothing more that woman loves, than holding a grudge. It’ll be a century before her hatred for anything abates- “

“ _Lady Sansa_!” Podrick’s frantic voice came from the hallway, startling the two women.

“Gods,” Sansa cursed underneath her breath. Her gaze darted towards the door. She’d been gone for too long. She caught Margaery’s confused expression. “I may have faked sickness to get past Podrick and into your room.” She shifted, sheepishly.

The Tyrell woman huffed. “You cannot be this reckless, again, Sansa. You will not be so lucky, next time.”

“I only wanted to help.” Sansa dug her heels into the carpet, sullenly.

Margaery considered her for a moment. “Listen,” her voice turned gentle, again. “I cannot say when you will be able to join Robb up North. But you are not alone. We’ll try our best, together.”

She moved past her, with a gentle squeeze of Sansa’s shoulder, before she called to Podrick in that sweet, charming voice of hers.

“Don’t fret, Ser Payne! I saw how ill Lady Sansa was, and tended to her in my room.”

Sansa was too distracted to hear Podrick’s response.

_‘We’ll try our best, together’_

The realization barreled into her, leaving her breathless and exhilarated. She wasn’t alone anymore.

* * *

The next morning, Sansa awoke to Jeyne standing over her, with worry creasing her forehead.

“Are you feeling better, m’lady?”

Sansa nodded, as weakly as she could manage, remembering through her haze of grogginess, that she was supposed to be recovering from a mysterious illness, from yesterday.

“Prince Jaehaerys told me this morning you had taken sick.” She tutted, sounding decades beyond her actual age. “You have to be careful, m’lady.”

Sansa half-frowned at the mention of Jaehaerys. She had expected, with how smug he’d been, to have left early in the morning for his patrol. “The prince hasn’t left yet?”

“No, he’s meant to leave tomorrow.” Jeyne confirmed, bustling around the room. “I believe King Rhaegar wished to meet with him, later, today. _Oh_ , that reminds me.” She scurried to the bedside, pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from the folds of her skirts.

“I was told to give this to you, first thing in the morning. It’s from the king.”

“King Rhaegar?” Sansa sat up straight in bed.

“Well, yes.” Her maid held out the letter. “There’s only one king.”

She practically snatched the paper from Jeyne’s hand, her eyes scanning quickly down the letter.

_Lady Sansa Targaryen,_

_Pycelle has recently reported disappointing news to me, that is, that you are not with child. As a new member of the Targaryen family, I must remind you of your sworn duty._

_It is the wife’s responsibility to make herself presentable, and to present herself to her husband as necessary. An heir must be provided within the first year of marriage. Any delay will not be met kindly. I have been extremely generous thus far, considering the crimes of your parents._

_Do not disappoint me._

_Your king,_

_Rhaegar Targaryen_

It took all of Sansa’s strength not to shred the letter in front of Jeyne.

Instead, she ate the breakfast Jeyne had brought her, dispassionately, and dressed quickly.

Sansa went to court of her own volition, wanting to see Margaery, but was disappointed to see that Lady Hayford in all her infinite wisdom, chose today of all days to return to court. She predictably monopolized Margaery for the entire time, and Sansa couldn’t find an opening to pull the Tyrell woman away to vent her worries. Varys was nowhere in sight, so she was forced to remain in Lady Hayford’s company.

She wasted the entire afternoon, trying to drone out Lady Hayford’s endless stream of gossip. Her mind drifted and fixated on the king’s letter.

It was still relatively new in their marriage, but Rhaegar’s impatience fit with what she knew about the growing rebellion. If he was worried about the Northern rebels, it would make sense that he would want to quiet them with an heir that possessed Stark blood.

Jaehaerys had to know of Rhaegar’s impatience.

Her stomach turned uneasily. If she showed Jaehaerys the letter, she wondered if he would change his mind about laying with her, sensing his father’s impatience.

_An heir must be provided within the first year of marriage._

There was only so long that they could delay any sort of consummation. But, perhaps, by that point Magarey and Varys would be able to orchestrate her escape from King’s Landing. Hadn’t Varys promised that some sort of plan would be formed within the month? The uncertainty of it all gnawed away at her.

“-sa, Sansa?” Lady Hayford broke into her thoughts. Sansa startled to attention, her vision focusing, seeing Lady Hayford with her brows knitted together in worry. “Goodness you don’t look well.”

Margaery cleared her throat, “Lady Sansa was ill the other day. She insisted on coming to court, to see everyone. Perhaps I should call Ser Payne, and have him escort you back to your room?”

“Yes,” Sansa murmured, faintly. “Yes, that might be best.”

* * *

Sansa was fully prepared to collapse onto the bed, when she returned, but her plans came to a screeching halt when she saw she was not alone.

Jaehaerys was by the fireplace, shirtless, with his back turned towards her. Her first instinct was to clear her throat in acute embarrassment. She’d never seen him indecent like this. Her discomfort shifted, as she realized, the skin of his back was terribly marred.

A single, angry, red welt ran the length of his broad, muscular back. By his side, there was a glass of amber liquid, presumably, heavy liquor to ease his pain.

The words tumbled out of her mouth, before she could restrain herself.

“You’re injured.”

Jaehaerys’ head jerked towards her, and he stood up, sharply. He reached for his crumpled shirt, on the chair beside him. “I thought you were in court.” He muttered.

“I wasn’t feeling well.” Sansa’s brow furrowed. “But _you_ look to be in worse shape.”

“I’ve had worse.” Jaehaerys replied shortly, pulling the fabric over his head. His minuscule wince, as the fabric made contact with the injured skin, did not escape her notice.

Sansa stepped forward, frowning. “How did it happen?”

Jaehaerys ran a hand through his dark curls. “I was in the sparring yard this morning.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. She was far from an expert on battle wounds, but that welt looked highly atypical of a sparring injury. Hadn’t Podrick also mentioned that the prince was unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat? If the prince was so talented, she doubted that any fool in the sparring yard would be able to land a direct hit like that on his back.

She was tempted to press him on the matter, but sensed that if she tried, he would only grow irate.

“You should sit.” She found herself saying, instead.

Without bothering to wait for his response, she headed for their shared bathroom, and found the salve that Pycelle had given her for her cheek injury. When she returned to him, he glanced at the jar in her hand.

The prince shook his head. “That won’t help much.”

“I’m sure your tactic of just _sitting_ there was doing so much, already.” Sansa countered, dryly. In response, the prince’s jaw clenched in resignation. She wondered why he hadn’t gone to Pycelle, himself. Was he so terribly prideful, that he would rather deal with the pain?

She wasn’t sure why she was even offering any assistance. A wounded Jaehaerys should have equaled a cause for celebration, and yet here she was, with medicine in hand. She couldn’t help but suddenly recall Margaery’s words.

_“He’s soft on you.”_

“Lift your shirt.” She instructed, trying her best not to dwell on her newfound ally’s words. “The salve helped with my scarring, at least.”

An indecipherable expression surfaced on his handsome features. He seemed on the cusp of disregarding her, and yet, after a short pause, he straddled the chair, and pulled his shirt back up over his head.

Sansa swallowed hard. The wound had looked terrible, when she first walked in, but up close, the injury was even more gruesome. The edges of the welt were blue with bruising and as she hovered over his wound, she could feel, acutely, how inflamed the injury was. Sansa’s gaze, trailed over the expanse of his back, surprised to see _more_ lines, crisscrossing over each other _._ Theses ones were more subdued, slightly pink, and puckered at the edges.

_This wasn’t his first injury. It looked like he had been-_

“Are you planning on staring for much longer?”

His gruff question startled her. Sansa shook her head, in slight embarrassment and scolded herself internally for getting carried away with her thoughts.

She dipped her index and middle finger in the salve, and tentatively came forward, prepared to spread it on the portion of the wound, closest to his neck

Her finger pressed slightly against the wound and, immediately, he jerked away with a pained hiss, “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Sorry!” she withdrew her hand quickly. Sansa worried her bottom lip, unsure whether or not to proceed. She remembered the liquor, and turned to grab it, hurriedly handing it to him.

Jaehaerys took it with a grimace and knocked back the contents of the glass. She was sure he would tell her to quit, but after a moment, he huffed out. “Keep going.”

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked, uncertainly.

He nodded shortly, knuckles white around the glass.

She reluctantly took more salve and resumed spreading the medicine down the length of the wound, wincing as his muscles flexed in clear pain, beneath her fingertips. Jaehaerys managed to suppress any further outbursts, but it was clear from the way his expression twisted, that the pain had not subsided by any means.

She tried her best to hurry. “If this is the sort of wound you get, perhaps you should take a break from sparring every morning.” Sansa murmured.

If he caught on that she knew he was lying about the origin of his wound, he did not let on. “It’s good practice.” He grunted back.

Sansa bit her lip, before deciding to press him. “What happened to the poor soldier, who managed to land a blow on the general?”

“Nothing.” He took another swig, grimacing tightly. “If I let myself get injured like that, it’s my fault.”

“Podrick told me you’ve never lost a spar.”

Jaehaerys exhaled sharply as she grazed over a particularly tender area. “That boy speaks too much for my liking.” He gritted out. “And I never said I lost.” Sansa carefully watched the prince.

His grey eyes seemed to darken. “Battles aren’t always won, cleanly.”

The intensity of his words unnerved her, and she fell into silence. When she finished, she capped the jar of salve.

“All done.” She murmured, finally.

Jaehaerys stood slowly and dressed himself carefully.

“Jeyne may have told you. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”

Sansa’s grip on the salve, tightened. “Yes, she said as much.” She replied, her eyes downcast. Every time Jaehaerys left, she was frightened that this would be the one patrol that he would come back victorious. 

She blinked up and was startled to see he had moved closer. His frame loomed over her and his grey eyes were unblinking. “What are you-“

“I don’t know how long it will be till I return.” He cut in, quietly. “You will stay with Podrick, at all times, if you aren’t in your room.”

“Don’t worry,” Sansa turned away with a scowl. “I’m not going to go to Rhaenys while you’re gone.” Briefly, she contemplated bringing up Rhaegar’s letter, but decided against it. It sounded like he would be gone for several day, at the least. There wasn’t anything she could do to get pregnant, if her husband wasn’t even present. Rhaegar, himself, wouldn’t be able to argue against that logic.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” He replied, evenly with a peculiar look in his eyes. She tried her best to decipher it. _What was he worried about? About her?_ No, that didn’t seem right. What on earth could he be concerned about, regarding her?

His head tilted. “No matter what, do you understand?”

The way he looked at her, made her feel like he could see every little errant thought in her mind. It wasn’t possible, but it still made her uneasy, knowing now, what she knew about Margaery. There was no way he knew, she tried to reassure herself. If he did, Margaery would have been in the cells and not in court, laughing easily with Lady Hayford.

Sansa swallowed down her anxieties, and nodded, numbly.

“Yes, I understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW the response to the last chapter was overwhelming and I am so grateful. I appreciate all the kind words and it blows my mind that people are invested in this story, take the time to comment/kudos/discuss theories. pls know that although i don't respond, i read each and every comment with the utmost care!!
> 
> just a little note:
> 
> i know a few of the comments are upset about jon right now, wondering how they could be romantic, with him being such an asshole etc and i get it!! relationships that have the guy behaving grossly, and condescendingly shouldn't be romanticized and isn't the type of relationship or message that i'm aiming to promote here.
> 
> without giving away anything, i just want to reassure you that jon's character has a path, and i'm hoping you trust me enough to take you along with him :) 
> 
> the story remains a jon/sansa at its core, though we are taking our time to get there (please bear with a lil slowburn here)
> 
> next chapter: july 21st or earlier  
> (i know, i know, i lied about my deadline last time, but i was unexpectedly sick with a stomach bug, and that definitely messed with my goal there. but i've written more than half of the next chapter already, so i feel quite confident with this deadline haha)
> 
> you guys are awesome, stay safe and healthy <3


	8. fire and blood

“You’d think you would be better at cards, given how often you’ve lost.”

Sansa’s left eye twitched, as she tried to ignore Margaery’s taunt.

“I think you are purposefully dealing me a bad hand, every turn.” She bit out, placing down her card, with a defeated sigh.

The two women had taken to playing cards in a secluded corner of the drawing room, during their time in court. It had been a much-needed reprieve for Sansa, away from the ever-watchful eyes of Jeyne and Podrick. She swore that Jaehaerys had spoken to them before his departure, for they were even more attentive than they had been in the past.

Margaery glanced at it. “You can deal if you like for the next turn, then. I’ve won this one.” She placed down her winning hand and leaned back with a triumphant smirk

“I don’t know how,” Sansa groused, “But you’re cheating.”

Then after a pause, she bit her lip, glancing around to make sure that nobody was in earshot. “Do you know where he is?”

Margaery stiffened.

She was undeniably a creature of extreme caution.

In Jaehaerys’ absence, Sansa had been eager, thinking that she would have ample time to discuss with Margaery about Robb, but Margaery seemed determined not to entertain Sansa’s questions.

The first time she had tried to broach the subject in court, the closest person had been a stone’s throw away, but to no avail, Margaery had let out a feral-like hiss. “Not, _here_.”

She understood the Tyrell woman’s fear, but her caginess did little for Sansa’s growing impatience.

Margaery’s lips barely moved in response to her question. “No.”

“He never said?” That was odd. The way Varys had spoken it seemed like he had been in some sort of contact with Robb. Perhaps out of an abundance of caution, his location had been kept a secret to only those that absolutely needed to know. With Margaery’s position in the capitol, it was entirely possible that they were worried that Robb’s location would be compromised.

“I got him a horse, when I helped him leave. That was it.”

“What about V- “A sudden clatter, startled the two women as the door to the drawing room opened. A group of young ladies swept into the drawing room, chattering excitedly.

“I told you not to bring it up here.” Margaery muttered, looking slightly pale.

“Then when?” Sansa hissed back. “You are either with Aegon, or I am followed by Jeyne or Podrick. In court is the only time we are alone, together.”

The brunette shifted forward, to gather the playing cards in her hand. “Soon.” She replied, tersely. After a beat, she blinked up at Sansa with a fire in her green eyes. “I have a plan.”

Sansa’s chest swelled with a sweet mixture of hope and relief. Varys and Margaery had planned for her escape after all. It was only a matter of time before she would be reunited with Robb.

“I’ll be able to tell you more, later.” Margaery shuffled the cards, looking as though she were discussing the weather and not treason.

“Hopefully, you will be home soon.”

* * *

Sansa returned to her room, feeling buoyant at Margaery’s news.

Jeyne was sitting by the fireplace, holding a piece of parchment in her hand. Her lips were set in a firm line, as she examined the words before her.

“What’s that?” Sansa hummed, moving to find her embroidery. Lately, she’d taken to making handkerchiefs, fashioning snarling wolves and snowflakes through fabric. It was a quiet rebellion within the comfort of her room.

Her maid looked up. “It’s from Lady Daenerys.” Sansa froze at the mention of the female Targaryen. “She asked if you would join her for afternoon tea, tomorrow.”

She’d never been summoned by Daenerys. The mere thought of it was frightening.

“I can tell her the prince wouldn’t like it.” Jeyne added hurriedly, when Sansa didn’t immediately respond. “His highness said as much, that he preferred you to not go anywhere unnecessarily in his absence.”

The pressure on her chest lifted slightly at the easy out Jeyne provided her. But she couldn’t help her burgeoning curiosity. “Did the invitation say anything else?”

Jeyne shifted her weight. “It does mention something about discussing your future in the capitol. Nothing else. I’ll decline the invitation, yes?”

 _‘Her future in the capitol’?_ What was the Targaryen woman playing at?

“No.” Sansa bit out, abruptly.

Her mind whirred through the possibilities for Daenerys’ sudden summons. Those words sounded like a thinly veiled jab, and Sansa could not find it within herself to turn away from it.

“I’ll go.”

Jeyne blinked. “Truly?”

Sansa nodded her assent. Her maid looked reluctant, but she turned to go answer the invitation.

She could already hear Jaehaerys’ gruff voice, reprimanding her. But Jaehaerys was not here and she cared little for what the Targaryen desired. She would have Podrick accompany her, as the prince had instructed. So really, she wasn’t doing anything that he had actively prohibited.

* * *

Daenerys unnerved Sansa. But there was obviously a reason why she had been summoned, and her curiosity burned brightly. As Podrick accompanied Sansa to Daenerys’ chambers, her mind flitted around the possibilities for why Daenerys had requested her presence.

Sansa bounced on her heels, nervously, as Podrick knocked on the door. Daenerys’ bedchambers were in a different wing of the castle. It was noticeably more secluded, than the wing that Sansa and Margaery’s rooms were.

He cleared his throat slightly, “Ah, the Lady Sansa here for tea with Lady Daenerys.”

The door opened after a beat. Sansa stepped back, surprised at how quickly the handmaiden was to answer Podrick. Shiny curls sprang past the doorframe, and pretty brown eyes blinked in greeting.

“Ah, Lady Sansa.” The woman gave a quick, but deep, curtsey. “I am Missandei, Lady Daenerys’ handmaiden.” Sansa noted the fine silk of Missandel’s dress. It was far nicer than anything she’d seen in Jeyne’s wardrobe.

“Pleased to meet you.” Sansa inclined her head.

The maid’s gaze flickered over to Podrick. “Your guard can wait outside, yes?”

Sansa frowned, glancing over at Podrick. “He’s my personal guard.”

“I’m to stay with her at all times.” Podrick reiterated with what Sansa was assuming was his form of an intimidating stare. “It’s direct orders from the General.”

Missandei looked unimpressed. “Unfortunately, this is Lady Daenerys’ private chambers.” She replied, firmly. “As the king’s cousin and acting lady of King’s Landing, she’s entitled to a higher status than the bastard prince. She asks that only Lady Sansa be permitted to enter.”

Sansa’s lips tightened. She felt oddly defensive over Missandei’s words. 

Podrick drew to his full height, “That’s absurd-“

She held up a hand to cut him off. “Fine. But he stays right outside.”

The handmaiden’s eyes gleamed. “Of course.”

Her guard’s mouth fell open. “Are you sure m’lady?”. “General Jaehaerys-“

Sansa cut him off again with a short nod. She was undeniably apprehensive, but if Missandei and Daenerys didn’t want Podrick in the room, she was hopeful that sensitive information would be shared. Perhaps she could taunt the woman into revealing more information that could be later relayed to Margaery and Varys.

“I’ll be fine.” She reassured him. “It will only be an hour or so.”

Podrick unhappily stepped back as Sansa followed Missandei into the room.

Instantly, Sansa noted the step-up in sheer size and opulence compared to her own bedchambers.

Daenerys was already seated at the bay window. Bright rays form the afternoon sun streamed through the sheer curtains, casting the room in a lovely glow. Another armchair was positioned across from the Targaryen woman and a small marble table was set up, between the two armchairs, with tea and a plate of finger sandwiches.

“Sansa, dear!” she trilled at the sight of Sansa. Her overly congenial tone was disconcerting.

Sansa hid her nervousness in a deep curtsey. “Lady Daenerys.”

The King’s cousin was truly one of the most beautiful people Sansa had ever seen. She was small in stature, and every limb, from her wrists to her ankles was slender and delicate. Her large violet eyes gave her a doe-like appearance, but when her pink lips curved, Sansa’s stomach turned, recognizing the venom in her smile.

“Thank you, Missandei, that will be all. Please don’t interrupt us, unless I call for you.” In Sansa’s periphery, she saw the maid leave. “Oh, sit! Goodness you’re pale.” She _tsked_. “I know Jaehaerys likes to keep you to himself, but it’s not doing any favors for your complexion.”

Sansa took a seat, smoothing out the folds in her dress, ignoring the pointed insult. “Jaehaerys has me walk every day in the gardens. He is kind to let me do so.” The words came out flat and rehearsed.

“Yes, he did mention something about that.” She laughed merrily. “Why, it’s like walking a dog every so often. Jaehaerys and his own little pet wolf, hm? Help yourself to the tea.”

Sansa smiled, inwardly wishing to wring the lady’s neck. She settled for taking a sip of tea, instead. It was freshly brewed and burned her tongue slightly, but it was a welcome distraction.

“I have to say, I _was_ slightly put out, when my cousin proposed that Jaehaerys marry you.” That captured Sansa’s attention. She took another diplomatic sip of her tea. Daenerys continued, with a smirk, “I quite wanted him for myself.”

Sansa hadn’t quite finished swallowing her tea and choked on it slightly, trying to school her expression into one of neutrality.

“I apologize.” Sansa replied half-heartedly.

What on earth did one say to such a declaration? _Sorry? I had no choice in the matter since I’ve been a prisoner of your family ever since your cousin executed my parents and siblings?_

She waved Sansa’s flimsy apology away, “No matter, such sacrifices must be made for the Targaryen legacy. Who would have known that _you_ would have been the lone Stark?” Daenerys smiled. “I remember hearing how you cried when your parents were executed. It was all quite sad.” She hummed, taking a sip of her own tea.

Sansa stilled, trying hard to push down the image of her mother and father’s heads, bloody and disfigured, atop the castle’s walls. She heard a faint clinking noise. It came several more times before she looked down to see that _she_ was the source of the noise. Her hand was shaking around the cup of tea, causing it to hit the saucer, repeatedly.

“Don’t.” She managed to still the tremors of her hand. “Don’t you dare mention them.”

Daenerys looked on, serenely.

“And I’m not,” She snarled, eyes bright.

“Not..?”

She knew she would come to regret her words, but her fury was too great, to hold in. “I’m not alone. My brother Robb leads the resistance up North.”

“Jaehaerys will kill him.” The blonde woman sneered back. “And _please_ , a rag-tag army of a few hundred men could hardly be called a resistance. It won’t be long, till they’re all rotting in the soil.”

“Did you summon me here just to tell me that?” Sansa snapped. Her composure was unraveling.

“Oh no,” Daenerys shook her head, taking another sip of tea. “I summoned you here for a much more important reason. It’s come to my attention, that my family members have lost sight of what’s important.”

Sansa frowned.

“To be more specific, they seem to think you’re much more important than what you’re truly worth.”

Her stomach twisted in what felt like a dozen knots. It wasn’t surprising how little Daenerys thought of her, but the glimmer in the woman’s violet eyes, set her on edge.

 _“_ And quite honestly,” Daenerys continued, setting down her tea. “I have felt that things should be taken into my own, very capable, hands.”

She leaned down to pick up a swath of cloth from the shelf beneath the marble table. She unwrapped it slowly, and Sansa froze seeing a glint of metal catch the sun’s rays.

All she could hear was her own heartbeat, pulsing loudly within her eardrums. Her mind screamed one word.

_Run._

“Valyrian Steel.” Daenerys, dropped the cloth, revealing an intricately set dagger. The sharp tip caught the sunlight rays, taunting Sansa with how brightly it shone. “Quite pretty, isn’t it?” Her violet eyes shimmered.

_Mad. They’re all mad._

Her blood ran cold. Podrick was right outside the door. She _wouldn’t._ But the cruel twist of Daenerys’ lips said otherwise. She’d sent her handmaiden away. Podrick wasn’t in the room. Jaehaerys was gone. There was quite literally nothing in her way.

Her mind screamed at her again.

Sansa stood up abruptly, “I should go.”

“Sit.” The Targaryen countered, looking up from the blade with a congenial smile. “I believe Missandei had to speak to your guard, and it will be a few minutes before he returns. I’d hate for you to have to return, alone.”

Fear settled in her belly like a thick poison. _So, she’d gotten rid of Podrick._

Sansa’s gaze flickered over to the door. She could make a run for it. Daenerys wasn’t a soldier, but she did command quite a few of them. And the moment Daenerys called for it, they would come and subdue her. She didn’t know if they would be loyal to Daenerys or Jaehaerys’ orders.

Sansa weighed the risk, but before she could even will her body to take a step forward, she stumbled forward, losing her balance. A strange wave of fatigue washed over her, and her vision blurred as the room whirled around on its axis. She reached out to grasp the armchair to steady herself.

“Like I suggested, it might be better for you to sit.” Daenerys sounded so far away, but she was undeniably smug.

“What-what did you do to me?” Sansa staggered back into the chair. She felt so _heavy_. Her mind kept screaming, but her body refused to obey, preferring to sink into the plush fabric.

“Just something extra in your tea.” Daenerys’ voice came again.

_“You will stay with Podrick, at all times, if you aren’t in your room.”_

Had the prince known that Daenerys would unravel in such a manner? Her chest rose and fell with shallow, panicked breaths. Rhaegar and Jaehaerys needed her alive. Daenerys had to understand that. She was more useful alive than dead.

Sansa blinked up at the blonde woman, but even that simple action felt laborious, and heavy on her eyelids. “Jaehaerys won’t-won’t forgive you. He needs me to be alive.”

Daenerys scoffed. “You’re nothing but a play thing for Jaehaerys.” Her slender hand curved around the hilt of the blade, in a dangerously practiced manner. “Though, I’ll admit, you’re keeping his interest, a lot more than I thought you would have.”

Sansa’s breath hitched as Daenerys leaned over her limp form. Abruptly, she yanked on Sansa’s chin, holding it painfully tight. Sansa choked back a gasp.

“I‘m sure,” Daenerys’ lips twisted into a sneer. “It has nothing do with your pretty face.” Sansa’s gaze darted down to the knife, still securely in the blonde’s right hand.

“I think,” she continued, softly. “Jaehaerys would tire very quickly of you, if something were to happen to this pretty face.”

A burst of hatred seared through Sansa’s chest, momentarily clearing the haze. _Was everything just a game to these Targaryens?_ Daenerys could have Jaehaerys for all she cared. Sansa wanted her family back, she wanted her _freedom_.

_Freedom…she had to escape._

“You can have him.” Sansa hissed, through clenched teeth. “You two deserve each other.” And because she must have had a death wish, she mustered her dwindling strength, and spat on Daenerys’ pretty face. It landed resoundingly on her ivory cheek with a satisfying _splat_.

In a flash of silver and silks, she was knocked to the ground, and Daenerys Targaryen, practically ethereal in her madness, was atop her, letting out a furious scream. 

Daenerys brought the knife close to her chin. The cool steel contrasted acutely against the flush of her skin. “You shouldn’t have done that, stupid girl.” She spat. “Shall I follow your family tradition and take your head?”

The mention of her family ignited a fire in her belly; it was all for naught. She struggled in Daenerys’ grip, but her body felt so weak. It took all her strength to simply raise one of her arms, before it fell back to the ground in a useless heap.

“You’re not going to put up a fight?” Daenerys taunted.

Her voice came in and out. Clarity evaded Sansa. It was all a haze, and suddenly, bursting through the haze was a sharp, stabbing pain at the base of her chin. A scream was wrenched out of her body, a terrible, inhuman shriek that couldn’t have possibly been made by Sansa, yet it scraped at the edges of her throat all the same.

She was _hurt_ and the pain, coupled with the desperation to escape consumed her. But as much as her mind willed her to push away at her attacker, her body, still, traitorously, refused to act.

The pain receded for a blessed second. Before she could be grateful for the reprieve, she saw the flash of steel in her periphery and Sansa heard the slash of flesh, before she felt it. Another scream was ripped from her.

“Please,” Sansa whimpered out, her voice thin. She could barely make out anything through her tears. “Please, please _stop_.”

“I don’t think so,” Daenerys purred. She felt warm breath trickle against her ear. “Where shall I cut next? I’ll let you choose this time.”

Steel pressed against her cheek. “ _Y_ \- “Sansa gasped out.

“What was that?”

“You're psychotic.” Sansa hissed, possessed with anger and frustration at her helplessness.

Daenerys sighed plaintively. “Goodness, I would have thought your time in the capitol would have taught you better manners than that.”

The steel came again. This time, it found its target in the crook of her right shoulder. Sansa fought to suppress the scream, but it barreled its way through her clenched teeth.

A loud _BANG_ came, splitting the air and cutting through Sansa’s scream.

“Daenerys!” 

Sansa’s chest heaved at the sound of Jaehaerys’ voice. Dark, smoky anger permeated his tone, and though she couldn’t see him, she had never heard him so furious. His heavy footfalls against the floor came in rapid succession, and a small yelp came, as Daenerys was roughly pulled off of her.

“Don’t fucking move. I’ll deal with you later.” she heard him growl.

If Daenerys replied, she didn’t hear it. Her mind could only fixate one thing.

_Jaehaerys._

Sansa called out to him.

Her lips moved, disrupting the skin around the wounded flesh, setting off a shockwave of pain. She gasped out his name brokenly, slurring the mess of vowels together. He heard her nonetheless, and when he turned away from Daenerys, finally seeing her bloody and bathed in the sunlight, all the dark wrath in his handsome face was replaced swiftly by pale terror.

She’d seen Jaehaerys angry, apathetic, smug, sad even, but never _scared_.

“ _Jeyne!_ ” His roar was thunderous, jolting the room to life.

From Sansa’s peripheral vision, she saw a flurry of skirts as her handmaiden rushed in the room, cheeks red with exertion. She looked as though she’d sprinted halfway across the castle.

“Go get Pycelle.” He snarled.

“I’ve already sent someone to fetch him. Is the Lady Sansa-” Jeyne’s eyes landed, squarely on Sansa, and she made a choked noise. “Oh _gods_.” A hand went up, covering her mouth.

Jeyne’s reaction terrified her. She reached up, gingerly to feel the wound, only to recoil instantaneously. Her hand was wet. _Blood, lots of it._ She grimaced, trying hard not to imagine what her face looked like, all slashed up. It seemed her shallow tendencies had not died out completely.

“Do you have a cloth?” Jaehaerys extended an impatient hand towards the handmaiden. When she didn’t respond immediately, he scowled. “For fuck’s sake Jeyne, don’t vomit.”

Jeyne startled from her stupor, hastily retrieving one from the pockets of her skirt. She handed it to Jaehaerys, but her gaze was still fixed on Sansa.

“It’s a lot of blood, sir,” Jeyne was visibly green. “W-will she be fine?”

“Your sniffling won’t help. You need to stay with her, make sure she doesn’t bleed out.”

There came a slight pressure at her chin, as he stooped down to tend to her. “Hold this here.” He demanded. She obeyed, wincing as he pushed against the wound.

“It will hurt, but we need to stem the bleeding.” Jaehaerys instructed. There was something oddly soothing about his clinical tone. It steadied her. The rush of relief that had overwhelmed her, just at the sight of him, unnerved her to her core.

“Am I-am I going to be okay?” Even to her own ears, she sounded feeble and pathetic.

“If it takes just a couple of cuts to the face, to defeat Sansa Stark, that would be supremely disappointing.” He chuckled darkly, but there was a strained edge to it. His grey eyes swept over her wounds with an expression that could have been mistaken for concern.

“My shoulder too,” she mumbled against the cloth, feeling woozy. “I think she cut there too.”

She felt Jaehaerys’ hand steady the back of her neck, as he pulled back the collar of her dress. His body stiffened as he caught sight of the wound. “Fucking hell,” he swore under his breath. He was practically vibrating with anger. “Pycelle will be here soon, but you need to keep pressing against the wound.” Jaehaerys’ squeezed her hand, tightly. “Can you do that for me?”

Sansa managed a nod. Jaehaerys motioned for Jeyne to help her, and then he was on his feet in a murderous flash.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” He was seething, looming above the Targaryen woman.

And though Sansa knew that Jaehaerys was angry purely because he viewed her as property, and Daenerys as someone who had trespassed on said property, she couldn’t help the curl of satisfaction in her belly, seeing the blonde tremble.

Still, Daenerys managed an impressive bravado. “I thought I would have a bit of fun with your beloved wife.” She tossed her hair back.

“You cut open her face, because you were bored?” Her husband’s voice was steeped in a mixture of condescension, disbelief and anger. “Are you a fucking _idiot_?”

“Careful,” Daenerys snarled back. “I think you’re getting a little too fond of the wolf bitch.”

Jaehaerys’ eyes flashed. “This bitch,” his voice went low and threatening, “is the only reason Robb Stark isn’t storming this castle with his growing army. If she’s seen with her face all cut up, and word gets back to whatever hole he’s hiding in, he’ll be fucking irate.” He advanced closer, towering over the blonde. “But you don’t ever think about these things, do you? You just enjoy your nice, shiny things, and let us clean up after your messes.”

“Yes, well that’s why we keep bastards like you around, isn’t it?” She retorted. Jaehaerys’ grey eyes narrowed. Her choice in words had been purposeful and unwise. “You think you can condescend to me?” There was a hysterical edge in her tone. “I am a _true_ Targaryen.”

“You’re a true Targaryen, hm?” Jaehaerys said, sneeringly. “Yet, you are not one of the Targaryen heirs, and you are not the Targaryen, who commands the armed forces. You are the unnecessary Targaryen, Dany. The moment he finds out you’ve endangered the largest holding we have, Rhaegar won’t care that you share a surname.”

Dany purpled with rage, but Jaehaerys had already lost interest. He turned towards the door. “Now where the _fuck_ is Pycelle?” He snapped.

Words came in and out as Sansa struggled to focus on what was happening in front of her. The haze of pain was coming back, and Sansa was too weak to fight it. She was so _exhausted_ , and the effort she had been putting just to keep sitting upright, was draining.

She dimly registered steady hands wrapping around her shoulders and behind her knees.

Sansa’s eyelids fluttered close and let herself succumb to the darkness.

* * *

_She’d been crying, gasping for any sort of reprieve, but none came. The adrenaline wore off. The drug had worn off. All she left had was pure, unfiltered pain._

_“Can’t you give her anything?”_

_“We can’t give her anything too powerful. We need her conscious while we stitch her up. If anything were to happen, and she was too sedated to respond, we might cause further damage.”_

_She tried to focus on the conversation around her, anything to distract from the agony, but it all blended together in an indecipherable mess._

_The next time she was somewhat coherent, she saw the prince peering over her. His eyes were twin, grey storms. She saw the familiar curtains of their bedroom, behind him. When had she been moved? How long had it been since she’d been attacked?_

_“Sleep now,” His low voice had urged her._

_She tried to fight the overwhelming drowsiness that cocooned her. There were questions she wanted answers to. It was no use. They were all slipping away._

_“Sleep.” The prince ordered, once more and she begrudgingly did as told._

Sansa awoke slowly.

There was a lot to take in as she came to, but at the forefront, was the dulled pain at her chin and neck. It wasn’t quite as agonizing as the onset, but it hurt to turn her head even an inch in any direction. Not that there was much to see anyways, her face was nuzzled into a black fabric that was suspiciously solid and warm. She blinked, trying to orient herself.

She was in her bedroom, wasn’t she?

Her mind still felt lethargic and dulled. Pycelle had to have slipped her a sedative.

“You’re awake, then?” The black fabric that she’d been resting upon, shifted slightly with the question that had been posed by the distinctly familiar, low voice.

Every fiber of her being stiffened.

She peeked up beneath her lashes, swallowing hard at the sight of the prince. There were dark circles marring his complexion, and his beard had definitely grown out since he had last departed the castle, lending to his exhausted appearance.

Sansa gingerly pulled back. She hadn’t expected that he would be there, when she awoke. 

Jaehaerys got up without a word, pulling a hand through his dark curls. It seemed he had neglected to change into more comfortable clothes. His black dress shirt was rumpled and completely untucked from his pants.

The silence was unbearable. “Where is she?” Sansa asked quietly, from her place on the bed.

“My father and I will deal with her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Her actions will have consequences.” His face hardened. “I didn’t think she would go so far as to…” Jaehaerys trailed off. “I think she knew I was returning soon and meant to act before I came back.” His voice was rough at the edges.

“Sansa, before anything else I have to-“

A rapid-fire knock interrupted his words, and Podrick bustled in looking pale and on edge. The sight of her guard, startled Sansa. She suddenly wondered, if he had been reprimanded by Jaehaerys.

“Your Highness.” Podrick bowed. “I apologize for the intrusion.” He came to Jaehaerys’ side, whispering too low for Sansa to hear.

Jaehaerys’ brows furrowed. He was clearly unhappy. “Just outside, right now?”

Podrick nodded, glancing back at the door, nervously.

The prince’s jaw clenched, and after a short moment, he stood.

Sansa’s hand shot out, unconsciously. She grasped his wrist tightly, eyes wide with anxiety.

She couldn’t bring herself to voice her fears, but it was written plainly on her face for him to see. If Jaehaerys left her, she was vulnerable.

The prince turned his palm in her grasp, so that his long fingers rested over her own trembling hand. “It’ll be fine.” His reassured her, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It’ll only be a couple of minutes, while I sort this out.”

His hold eased, and then he was gone, looking back, once, before he was out the door.

Sansa’s chest constricted as she tried desperately to remember how to breathe normally.

She’d known that King’s Landing had never been safe for her. The constant nightmares of her parents’ deaths had been reminder enough. She knew pain was inevitable as a prisoner, but she’d never felt so close to death, as she had, pinned beneath Daenerys’ madness.

It had been so naïve of her to grow complacent. Any misstep could be fatal. She’d been lucky that Jaehaerys had returned in time, but if he hadn’t...it was a terrible thought to fixate on.

“…you _serious_?”

Sansa’s ears pricked up. That sounded like Jaehaerys. 

Another voice came, more muffled, and she strained to hear.

She couldn’t make out the entire conversation, but bits and pieces floated through the walls.

The prince’s voice came again. “She _just_ woke up…speak...her later.” Sansa could tell from the uncharacteristic rise in volume, that he was irritated.

The second voice was harder to place. It was quieter and more controlled. “…needs this…a reminder.”

“..barely coherent…tomorrow…”

“Ridiculous…a job well done, son…of course…preferred alive…must be done.” Sansa startled. The prince was speaking to _Rhaegar_. Why was the king here?

“The whole point…tell her…then she’ll _break_ …don’t want to deal…do you?”

Sansa got up on her elbows, to try and capture more of the conversation. They were clearly speaking about her. She let out a sharp hiss, as her body seized with pain when she craned her neck too far in her attempt at eavesdropping.

Cursing under her breath, she moved more carefully. This time, slowly inching her body towards the edge of the bed.

She might as well have stayed in place, for the door slammed open within seconds, and Sansa scurried back onto her side of the bed, trying not to appear obvious.

King Rhaegar, with a smug smile, was the first through the door, shortly followed by Jaehaerys whose face had turned to stone.

Sansa tried to catch his eye with a questioning look, but he would not meet her gaze. Her stomach turned in unease.

“It seems my son has yet to share the good news of his most recent patrol. So, allow me,”

Panic struck Sansa like a bolt of lightning from the sky.

_Robb._

Rhaegar’s terrible smile spread wide across his handsome face. Her ribs felt glued together, and her lungs refused to cooperate, waiting for the king to speak.

“Jaehaerys returned yesterday after recovering your little sister, Arya.”

_Not Robb._

_Arya._

Sansa recoiled in shock, feeling as though the world was slipping away from her. She’d been so worried about Robb; she hadn’t even thought to worry about Arya.

If Arya was here, that meant that Varys and Margaery would have to orchestrate an escape for _both_ of the sisters, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine if a plan like that was feasible.

“Can I-“Her hands were wrought with tremors. “Can I see her?” Images of her little sister, beaten and bloodied in the cells came to mind, filling her with terror.

In her periphery, she caught site of Jaehaerys. His complexion was grey, and his lips set in a tight, grim line.

It dawned on her then, the horrible realization snaking around her heart and squeezing in a tight vice. “ _No_ ,” she whispered, brokenly.

“I do apologize, dear Sansa.” The king’s congenial tone slithered through her horror.

“We did try to take her alive, but I heard she was a feral little thing.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid her corpse isn’t in the best of condition, You’ll have to forgive us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhh a cliffhanger, so sorry to leave u like this haha
> 
> again, thank you all for your support of this story. the highlight through all the craziness of this world is definitely reading your kind words.
> 
> my finals are coming up and so i shall be taking a longer time with the next chapter. 
> 
> next update: august 15th or earlier!
> 
> see u soon in august :)


	9. new moon rising

**\--**

_(a few years ago)_

_“I’m going to jump, Sans.”_

_“Don’t! You’ll get my hair all wet.” Sansa chided, moving to the opposite end of the hot springs. Her sister dangled precariously over the edge of the water with a devious glint in her eyes._

_They had arrived at Bear Island just a few hours ago, one of her parents’ favorite places for a getaway. The Stark children loved it too, especially for the famous hot springs nestled within the thick evergreen trees._

_“You’re already wet.” Arya scowled. “Why do you have to suck the fun out of everything?”_

_“I can be fun,” She protested. Granted, the two sisters’ definitions of ‘fun’ differed greatly. They had been like night and day from the moment they were old enough to argue with each other._

_“Really,” Her little sister’s brow rose, and her lips twitched. Sansa knew that look well. That only happened when she was up to something. “Well then you won’t mind then if I do this!” Arya launched herself into the center of the springs with a gleeful yell._

_Sansa barely moved in time to avoid the waves that Arya had generated with her forceful dive. She readied a scathing reprimand, but the words died on her tongue when she saw Arya’s jubilant expression as she re-surfaced._

_“That was amazing!” She cried, slicking her hair away from her face._

_When she glanced over, Sansa couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her throat. “You missed a spot.” A good chunk of hair remained plastered on her forehead. Her sister moved to fix it, but she shook her head with a grin. “It looks good, like that.”_

_Arya stuck out her tongue, easily floating over, and bringing her hand through the water, so that a few playful splashes hit Sansa’s chest. “Come on, try jumping in, it feels good!”_

_Sansa smiled._

_Usually, she was irritated, by Arya’s constant need for excitement and thrill, but this time it was more infectious, than anything. “Promise not to laugh when I belly flop?”_

_“Swear I won’t, Sans.” Arya promised with a smirk. They both knew she was lying._

_She pretended to mull it over and then shot her a cheeky grin._

_“Alright, I’ll do it. Just to show you how it’s done.”_

* * *

Rhaegar ordered for Sansa to be taken to the body.

She followed Podrick’s lead, feeling like she might collapse at any moment. It was as though she had left her own physical being and was watching a shadow of herself walk down the hallway with her guard, and the king and prince following closely behind.

In her daze, her thoughts drifted.

_Arya must have been so frightened in her final moments._

The guilt was crushing.

She hadn’t even been thinking of her little sister, so preoccupied with thoughts of Robb. Her brave sister who had escaped the Southern forces for so long, had fought so hard, all by herself. Even in death, she’d been alone.

But it didn’t feel real, her mind wouldn’t accept it. She couldn’t comprehend it. Arya was always the stronger, braver sister. How could she be dead when weak, crybaby Sansa remained standing? _It wasn’t fair._

_It should have been her._

Podrick’s soft voice came.

“Lady Sansa.” He spoke, gently.

She blinked up, confused. Somehow, they had arrived at the throne room, without her consciously realizing it. There was an odd scent in the air, and with one cursory glance, it took seconds for Sansa to see what the source was.

In the very center of the room, lay a crumpled body. It was limp against the marble floor, like a puppet newly snipped from it strings. Sansa froze, her legs locked into place. She could see the sheer amount of blood and dirt, caking the body, even a few feet away. Her stomach roiled and her throat constricted, tightly.

“I _can’t_.” She backed away, stricken.

Somewhere, she heard Rhaegar bark out an order. “Push her forward, Payne. She needs to identify the body.”

There was a pause. She knew her guard was hesitating. He approached her shaking form, and grasped her shoulders, pushing her closer towards the body. Unwilling, she turned her face away. She couldn’t bear it. If she peered down and saw Arya’s lifeless eyes staring back at her, she would be irreparably scarred.

 **“** If she’s not complying,” Rhaegar sighed, “Then feel free to strike her.”

“ _Please,_ m’lady _.”_ Podrick murmured under his breath.

Her jaw clenched. She half-wished he would strike her, if it meant she could leave. But, Rhaegar wouldn’t allow it. She’d be hit, and then dragged forward, regardless.

Sansa slowly lifted her head and summoning every atom in her body to cooperate, she laid eyes on the body.

A deep, broken sob left her chest.

What lay before her, could have barely been called a body. The corpse had been cruelly butchered. Her arms, legs, and the face, most noticeably, had been slashed several times, blood splatters covering every inch of the body, rendering it almost unrecognizable. Her heart sank when she saw the familiar matted brown hair and wiry frame of the body.

The bitter, sour taste of bile reached her tongue. She clamped a hand over her mouth in horror.

_No, no, no._

She turned away, shaking.

“What do you think, dear, Sansa?” Rhaegar, approached. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was grinning. “I would have liked to keep her alive but our Jaehaerys went off and made quite the mess. Targaryens are quite hot-blooded, and our temper tends to get the best of us.”

The realization hurtled into her. She couldn’t believe she’d nearly forgotten. This hadn’t been done by some unnamed, Targaryen soldier.

 _Jaehaerys did this_. He butchered her sister and brought her back South like her corpse was a trophy.

“Father, can we finish this up?” Jaehaerys’ bored voice came. “It’s clear from her sniveling, that the corpse is Arya Stark.”

Sansa’s chest burned bright with hatred and disgust at her own stupidity. Just moments ago, she’d thought Jaehaerys wasn’t as cruel as the rest of the Targaryens, but Arya’s corpse at her feet told a different story.

She’d been fooled by his minuscule acts of kindness, stupidly thinking it had hinted at something deeper. 

The fact remained that Jaehaerys had killed her little sister in cold blood. He was no different, than the rest of the dragons. _No, he was even worse_.

And she was still at his mercy.

“Very well.” Rhaegar sighed, displeased at his fun being cut short. “I wanted to be sure.” He turned to face his bastard; his lip curled in distaste. “You _have_ been in questionable form as of late.”

“Apologies, your grace.” Jaehaerys inclined his head. “I hope this recent success will restore your faith in me.”

“I’ll be satisfied when I see Robb Stark’s corpse.” The King snapped. “No sooner than that.”

“Of course.” The prince coolly replied.

_Father._

_Mother._

_Rickon._

_Bran._

_Now, Arya._

Numbly, she realized It was only a matter of time, before she joined the rest of them.

The thought was unsettlingly comforting.

* * *

The following days passed in a blur.

After the first day, Sansa had run out of tears, but the oppressive sadness she felt, remained unchanged. It was like a constant pressure on her chest, and no matter how much she tossed or turned at night, it kept looming over her, keeping her miserable company.

She had no desire to leave her bed, and no appetite for the food Jeyne brought. She existed solely in the tiny square of her bed, content to waste away.

The one saving grace throughout her listless haze, had been Jaehaerys’ absence.

As far as she knew, he hadn’t left the castle, but he had not entered their shared chambers since she had been forced to identify Arya’s corpse, and Podrick had never come by her bedside, to force her on those inane walks.

Sooner or later, Jaehaerys would return. She pictured him dying slowly upon a sharp knife and got some satisfaction from it. But it was a hollow sort of satisfaction. After all, it was not him, but her, who was living on borrowed time.

Jeyne had mentioned that the prince was ‘allowing her time to recuperate’, but for the most part, Sansa rarely paid mind to whatever chatter Jeyne tried to engage her in. She just didn’t care.

It was always the same thing.

“You have to eat m’lady.” Jeyne prodded one afternoon.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I can ask the cook to make something else. What are you hungry for?”

“I’m not hungry.” Sansa repeated, flatly.

Nevertheless, Jeyne always brought bread, cheese, and sliced ham, food that would be decent to eat at any time, regardless how long it took for Sansa to pick at it. She was sure that had been done purposefully by Jeyne.

Sansa idly wondered on the third day why Margaery had yet to stop by. She longed to see someone that she could trust. But, as she forced herself to eat half of her bread roll, she realized that had most likely been Jaehaerys’ doing.

Daenerys’ attack had caused Jaehaerys to increase the security around her chambers. She only knew this, because Jeyne would often come and go, and she caught sight of the newly installed guards. There was at least three of them at any time, outside her bedroom door.

Like clockwork, she saw those guards again, when Jeyne returned to help her prepare for the night. It had been something Jeyne had done many times before but seemed especially pointless, now that Sansa only spent her day in bed. Still, Jeyne was a dutiful creature and carried out her tasks with care.

After Sansa’s bath, Jeyne reached for the new jar of salve that Pycelle had gifted Sansa after he’d seen Daenerys’ handiwork. Although the initial bleeding had made for a frightening sight, the wounds once cleaned, were not as excessive as she feared. There were two cuts that ran slightly below her lips to the underside of her chin. The skin was still pink and raw, but it was already healing nicely, thanks to Pycelle.

The worst of the cuts was the one on her shoulder. That one had been deeper than the other two, and still bled, needing a change of bandages every night. Jeyne tightened the cloth around her wound and applied a generous amount of salve under her lips.

“You’re okay, ma’am?” She asked, quietly.

 _A stupid question._ Sansa thought, bitterly. She nodded, anyways. Jeyne had been nothing but patient with her.

“I’ll grab your comb from the dresser. I can braid it how you like.” She shot Sansa a small smile in the mirror before heading out the bathroom.

Sansa sat back, idly. She dimly wondered how long this could go on. What more did the Targaryens have in store for her?

As if on cue, she heard a clatter from the bedroom.

“Your highness!” Jeyne stammered aloud, her voice carrying over to Sansa.

 _Jaehaerys_. Her blood ran cold. _So, he’d finally returned._

She staggered to her feet, and dark curls swiftly came into view, confirming her dread.

Sansa stared at the prince’s frame in the doorway. It felt like it had been an eternity since she had last seen him, but the fury that surged forth felt just as raw.

He barely acknowledged her, looking at her for only a split second. She stared at him longer. There were dark bags under his eyes, and his beard had grown out even more. He looked thoroughly exhausted and worn down.

 _Good_ , Sansa thought, bitterly. She hoped her brother was running him ragged, outsmarting him at every turn.

“Jeyne.” He nodded tightly. “Leave us.”

“Of course.” Her maid murmured. She curtseyed deeply and took her leave.

“Come with me.”

Panic gripped her tightly. Was he taking her to be killed, finally? It was the dead of night, but perhaps he meant to dispose of her with few witnesses to the crime.

“Where are we going?” She asked, shakily.

The dark-haired prince ignored her, turning on his heel, to rummage around her closet. He pulled something out and came forward, approaching her.

He reached for her, and instinctively, her body jerked away. He stilled, immediately.

“I’m just going to put this over you.” Jaehaerys said, quietly. “You need to cover up, it’s cold outside.” He was holding a dark cloak.

 _He should have just had the guards carry her away_ , Sansa’s mouth twisted, resentfully. It would make no difference to her whether she went to her death, freezing or not.

She nodded, numbly.

He moved slower this time, draping the cloak around her shoulders, and she moved her arms so that they slipped through the sleeves.

Sansa attempted to pull the material at the waist together in a knot. Something so basic, but her shaking hands wouldn’t let her. She let the fabric leave her hand with a huff as she pressed the heel of each palm against her eyes.

 _Stop shaking._ She reprimanded herself. _She couldn’t let him see how afraid she was._

Suddenly she felt a tug against her waist. Her eyes flew open in alarm.

Jaehaerys had leaned closer. He was tying the belt for her. She urged herself to breathe normally. There wasn’t a hint of a sneer on his face, when he stepped back, task accomplished.

He straightened, “Listen to me.” His voice was sharp, as he righted the collar of her cloak. “You need to be silent and follow me closely. It’s a bit of a walk.”

Sansa gave the barest of nods. _What other choice did she have?_

“Good. Let’s go.”

He strode out of their bedroom, without so much of a backward glance. Sansa’s mind screamed for her to run, to not follow the prince to her death, but she knew, deep down, that it would be futile. Her body followed Jaehaerys, down the hallway as he made his way out of the wing. The candles along the walls, lit the path with an eerie glow.

Sansa’s steps felt heavy with fear and grief, but she had accepted her fate now. She would go to her death with her head held high, a proud Stark till the very end.

Her resolve faltered, when she realized, something was off.

Jaehaerys wasn’t taking the hallway towards the throne room. In fact, she wasn’t quite sure where they were after a few minutes of walking. His pace had picked up and he had gone down a narrow hallway that she’d never been down before.

They came to a flight of narrow stairs, tucked behind a dark alcove. Sansa glanced about in bewilderment. The prince didn’t seem to notice or care for her confusion, as he headed down the steps.

She followed, unsure, but with no other choice.

At the base of the steps was a heavy door, which Jaehaerys roughly pried open with a stilted grunt. He gestured for her to go through first, which she did so, reluctantly, sure that there would be guards gathered outside.

There were no guards.

Somehow, they had traveled towards the base of the castle. When she stepped out, the salty tang of the ocean hit her nostrils and she heard the rush of waves as they hit against the rocky shores.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the night.

She glanced about apprehensively. The area looked to be overgrown, as though not a soul had passed through for years. _Was this where she was to meet her end?_ He’d chosen a fitting place. The crashing of waves would drown out any screams or pleas for her life. 

_Robb. I wanted to see you at least once more._

Sansa turned back towards the prince. She could barely make out his face in the darkness. It was better that way. Even now, it hurt to see his Northern features.

“Just get it over with.” She intoned, flatly.

Jaehaerys stepped forward. He was closer, so now she could make out his brows, as they tugged down in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Kill me. That’s what you’re planning to do, no?”

He had the audacity to pale at her words. “Sansa, I’m not going to kill you. I would _never_ hurt you.”

“No?” Sansa let out a caustic laugh. “You would just murder my sister.”

“Sansa, I wanted to tell you before Rhaegar came-“

“I don’t want to hear _anything_ from you.” Sansa seethed. “I lost interest in anything you had to say, the moment you brought Arya’s corpse back to King’s Landing.”

Her voice trembled, as she continued. “You’re the worst of them all. Treating me with small amounts of kindness here and there, _just_ enough to keep me from breaking and you _almost_ got me.” Her hands gathered at the folds of her skirt. “I thought it was possible that you might be different from the rest of them, but how could you be?” She sneered, disgusted at her own naivety, sickened that she had ever felt safe in his presence.

“You look like a Stark, but the similarities end there. You’re nothing but Rhaegar’s obedient little bastard.”

That little voice at the back of her mind, begged her to stop, fearful for her own life, but memories of Arya’s bright laugh spurred her on, further. “She didn’t deserve to be hurt. She didn’t deserve that at all, but you hacked her to bits, and gods-she was so _young_. She never had a chance!” The sobs were coming harder, salty rivulets down her cheeks, that she angrily wiped at. She looked up at Jaehaerys, expecting to see him smug at her unraveling emotions.

Instead, he looked frantic. Her confusion was quickly overrun by her fury. “ _Please_. I’m trying to explain to you -.”

“What could you possibly say to me?” Sansa spat back. “Just kill me and be done with it, already. If I spend another moment in this god forsaken city-”

He moved faster than she could process. But they had been a foot apart, and then his arm had darted out, and then they were only inches away. His head bent down, so that his cheek grazed against the side of her head. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, as his hold on her elbow tightened.

Before she could push him away, he exhaled against her fiery strands with a heavy sigh.

“I’m loyal to the North.”

Sansa stumbled back.

She blinked once, then twice. The prince was still in front of her, his shoulders low and a confounding mixture of sadness and desperation in his handsome, Northern face.

Why was he saying this?

There was no possible way that there was even a shred of truth in his words. Varys had mentioned a spy, and that spy was Margaery. Jaehaerys commanded King Rhaegar’s army. He was his beloved, loyal, bastard.

He had to be lying to her.

“Fuck you.” She was shaking – violently. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Sansa, _please,_ ” Jaehaerys’ voice was imploring. She’d never seen him so desperate. “Fuck, I know, everything’s fucked up. I _told_ Varys to change the plan-“

The rest of his words faded away, at the mention of Varys. Her breathing went shallow. _How the hell had he found out about Varys?_ The name unconsciously left her lips in her shock. “Varys?”

Jaehaerys paused, his lips tightened into a straight line. “He said he had spoken to you. He spoke to you, didn’t he?”

“He did.” She whispered back, feeling faint. “You...and…Varys?

“I’ve been trying,” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I know you’ve been so terrified, and gods, there were so many times I wanted to tell you, but they said they couldn’t afford to compromise me-”

“But, you…” It didn’t make sense. “How? W-Why _?_ ”

“I’m in the best position.” Jaehaerys’ gaze darted around nervously, as though he was genuinely worried of being discovered. But he couldn’t have been. This was a lie- _wasn’t it?_ “I can control where the patrols are deployed, and Rhaegar thinks of me as his right-hand man. I asked Rhaegar for you, or Aegon would have had his way with you.” His lips set in a grimace.

“But, _why_? Why betray your family?”

He shifted. “It’s a long story,” he replied, “We don’t have much time-“

“No.” Sansa snarled. “You don’t get to keep me in the dark any longer. People keep treating me as though I can’t handle the truth. I’m just as involved, if not more, than any of you are!”

Jaehaerys ran the back of his hand against his dark beard and exhaled sharply. “The only Targaryen I give a shit about is my sister in there. The rest of them deserve to rot in hell.” He let out a sigh. “I want to help your family.”

She had stopped listening after he mentioned Rhaenys. _He cared only for his sister?_ _What about her own sister?_ The one whose _corpse_ he had so gleefully delivered to his father. He had no right to declare his intent to help her family, when he had committed the foulest of atrocities.

Her palm sailed through the air and landed with a resounding _crack_ against his cheek. Jaehaerys faltered backwards, his cheek already stained a satisfying red. “How _dare_ you.” She hissed. “You _murder_ my sister, and you claim to be helping my family? _Why did you bring me here?_ ”

Jaehaerys opened his mouth to respond but he was cut off by a singular word.

 _“_ Sans _,”_

Sansa’s body went rigid. Only one person called her like that, with equal parts reluctant fondness and sly teasing imbued in her voice. But it wasn’t possible.

She’d seen that person on the ground, bloodied, and slashed beyond recognition.

Her heart stopped.

_Beyond recognition._

She’d assumed it had been her sister, the moment she saw the matted brown hair, but it was true, the body had been so mangled, that it was possible her mind hadn’t had time to process any other conclusion, other than the corpse was who Jaehaerys claimed it to be.

_I want to help your family._

Feeling as though she were floating through a dream, she turned towards the sound of the voice, and immediately felt her knees buckle beneath her.

Small, scruffy, _lovable_ Arya was in front of her.

Gods, she was terribly unkempt with dirt smudged on her cheeks and hands. Her little sister’s hair was shaved short, and with her lanky appearance, she looked more like a servant boy than the lost Princess of Winterfell, but there was no denying the bright, mischievous glint in her grey eyes.

Arya Stark was alive and well.

“You have it wrong, Sans.” Sansa’s heart felt like it was breaking all over again, at the sound of her sister’s voice. “He’s kept me safe.”

Sansa let out a ragged sob, stumbling forward to cradle her sister’s face, between her hands. “I-I don’t understand.” She trembled, savoring the sight of brave, little Arya. 

Arya grinned and reflexively, her heart swelled. She had dreamt this moment for so many moons. Now that it was truly unfolding in front of her, she felt like the wind had been knocked from her. In her dreams she hadn’t imagined crying so much, nor had she imagined that Arya’s warmth would have felt so soothing, like a balm against her cracked heart.

Sansa pulled her back into a tight embrace, burying her nose into her sister’s shoulder, frightened that if she let go, she would disappear once more.

Against her ear, Arya declared the phrase their father had always favored.

“The lone wolf dies,” Her voice was fierce and unforgiving,

“But the pack survives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u believe that i basically said lol nah to studying for my finals to get this out
> 
> idc!! i was so excited for this chapter. i'm so pleased we've gotten here. this is definitely a turning point of the story that i've been waiting SO long to get to.
> 
> i also wanted to announce as a little teaser (bc i'm also very excited for this) that next week's chapter will be titled "a bastard's interlude"
> 
> (that's right, she's releasing a jaehaerys pov)
> 
> as always, i appreciate your kind words <3
> 
> EDIT: next update: september 28th or earlier (thank you for being so patient with me, miss you guys lots!)


	10. a bastard's interlude (part i)

**(eight)**

The word first slithers into his ear at the age of eight.

Aegon spits it out when Jon beats him soundly in the sparring yard. He hadn’t meant to embarrass his older brother, really. There had been an opening, so he struck, his body moving automatically, after hours and hours of practice with Ser Forel. It all happens in a blink, and then Aegon is flat on his back in the dirt, and Jon is standing over him, unsure of what to do next.

It doesn’t take long for Aegon to get back on his feet, but it feels like forever, as Jon watches his brother’s expression contort from bewilderment to palpable rage. Jon freezes, immediately bracing himself for the inevitable.

“You got lucky, _bastard_.” His brother sneers, violet eyes alight with fury.

“Of course,” Jon falters, dropping the wooden sword, ashamed at his mistake. He doesn’t know exactly what a bastard is and why it sounds so venomous coming off of Aegon’s tongue, but he doesn’t dare to speak anything, but apologies meant at placating Aegon. “It was stupid of me.” His gaze falls to the ground. “I’m sorry, brother.”

“Your Highness,” Aegon corrects, with a haughty twist of his lips. “Everyone knows you’re no dragon.”

Ser Forel who has been watching this entire time from the sidelines, breaks the oppressive tension. “Prince Aegon, are you hurt? I can fetch Maester Pycelle.”

“I’m fine.” Aegon huffs out, still glowering at Jon. “Like this bastard could hurt me.”

Ser Forel inclines his head, “Of course.”

“Besides, a prince has better things to do than roll around in the dirt.” Aegon scoffs. “I’m going.” He announces, to no one in particular, setting off in the direction of the castle.

It’s only when Aegon is several paces away, out of earshot that Ser Forel murmurs to Jon. “Well done, my prince. It was a good hit.”

It isn’t often that Jon hears praise, but his chest feels too heavy, to feel elated.

_Everyone knows you’re no dragon._

Jon scrubs at the sweat on his brow in acute dissatisfaction.

_Bastard._

He kicks the fallen wooden sword with unrestrained frustration, earning a sidelong look from his teacher. He’s known that of his father’s children, he’s been the odd one out. Aegon looks exactly like Father, and Rhaenys looks exactly like Mother. Jon doesn’t look like either of them. Not even a mixture, or even a single feature on his face can be traced back to either of his parents.

“Pay him no mind, Prince Jaehaerys. Prince Aegon can be unkind when his temper runs afoul.” Ser Forel’s calm, low voice filters into his thoughts.

Jon bristles at that. His brother is unkind even when he is in good spirits.

* * *

“What does ‘bastard’ mean?”

It’s not till a month later after the initial incident with Aegon, that Jon summons the nerve to ask Mother about the word. Since then, it’s weighed heavily on his mind, like a dark cloud that won’t clear despite the constant sun of King’s Landing. He hears the word endlessly in his eardrums, like a mocking jeer, _bastard, bastard, bastard._

Every night Mother sees him off to bed, and sometimes she tells him a story if she has the time, but tonight, Jon has decided to ask her before he loses the nerve and fails to get a good night’s rest once more.

There’s a beat after his question, and then Mother’s pretty face crumples.

“I’m sorry-“ Before he can finish, she gathers him in her arms. Jon inhales her familiar perfume, instantly comforted. Her lips find the crown of his head, and she kisses him sweetly.

“Oh, my dear, where did you hear such a word?”

Aegon will be in trouble if he tells the truth. He can tell from the way Mother’s voice wobbles, unhappily.

“One of the lord’s sons.” He mutters, looking down. “I can’t remember which one.”

Mother places her hand at the base of his chin, so that he must look at her. She’s smiling warmly at him, though her eyes are wide brown pools of melancholy She often looks like this. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Jon.” He looks away again, embarrassed at being caught. Then after a moment she adds, quietly. “It’s a terrible word, one that doesn’t suit you at all.”

“It means you’re not my mother, right?” He asks, chest tight. The whispers return in full force.

_Bastardbastardbastard._

“Jon, look at me.”

He does so reluctantly. “I _am_ your mother.” She says it so fiercely, that his breath catches in his throat. “From the moment I held you, I loved you as any mother would love their own child.”

“But I’m not.” He retorts. “I’m not your own. Aegon and Rhaenys are,” his throat feels thick. “I’m not really your child.” He says. _Stupid_ , he thinks, trying to bite back tears. If father were here, he would scream at him for being so weak.

Elia is quiet and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He wants to scream. Not at her, maybe at Father, maybe at Aegon, or maybe at himself. He can’t quite decide.

“Would you like to know more about her – your mother?” She asks, with a somber expression “Your father - he decided not to speak of her anymore, so you mustn’t repeat any of this to him, Jon.”

He blinks, interest piqued, and then slowly nods. Elia’s hands come to squeeze his shoulders, fondly. “You’ll be good, and do that for me, won’t you, dear? This will just be a secret for the both of us.”

He nods again, quicker this time. She smiles in response. Then she begins. “She was a very beautiful woman, Jon. You look so much like her,” her right hand reaches up to pinch at his cheek. “So handsome,” she says with a lightness, that Jon knows is intentional. “And, she-she loved you so very much.”

“If she loved me,” Jon frowns, “Then why isn’t she here?” He demands.

There isn’t much that Jon knows about love. But, from what he can gather, love means that you don’t mind doing things for a person, and that it’s more than just ‘liking’ somebody. He knows he loves Elia and Rhaenys. Sometimes, when Father is in a good mood, Jon thinks he could love him too. But either way, if you love someone, why would you leave them?

Elia’s arm comes up to wrap snug against his waist, pulling him against her warmth. “Sometimes, even though we love somebody very much, we can’t be with them. Your mother was very sick, my love. She tried her best, but eventually it was too much for her. She passed away shortly after you were born.” Her hold on him tightens. “I was there, with her. And she told me just how much she loved you. She kept saying it over and over again. So never think that, she didn’t love you. It’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

“You mean it?” He says, quietly. “You’re not just saying so, to make me feel better?”

“I would never do such a thing.” She whispers into his dark curls. He feels it in his bones, she would never lie to him.

The pressure in his chest slightly subsides.

“Her name was Lyanna Stark, and she was of the North.” Elia tells him, barely above a whisper.

Jon’s grey eyes widen. The north? He only knows that Father hates the North and spends every waking moment cursing their army. Aegon repeats back the curse words that Father regularly spews, but Jon knows better than to parrot his Father. Mother and the Maesters would not approve. A dozen more questions blossom in his mind, but before he can ask them, Mother has more to say.

“She wanted to name you Jon. It was a gift to you, my love. That’s why I call you Jon instead of Jaehaerys.” She looks down at him so fondly, “I think it suits you well.”

“Oh, I thought it was just too long for you to pronounce.” Jon blurts out, naively.

He doesn’t know why, but she lets out a full-bellied laugh at that. A small giggle escapes his own lips.

Maybe he doesn’t know just exactly what love fully entails, but if he had to say who he loved most in the world, it would have to be her. He feels a small pang of guilt at that. He wonders if it’s okay with Lyanna, his true mother, that he feels such love towards another woman. His brow furrows. It’s hard to miss and love a stranger. Still, there’s a sort of peace that encircles him in warmth, with the information Elia has given him.

“Can I still call you mother?” He asks in a small voice. “I know I’m not-“

She pulls him into a crushing hug, before he can get the last words out. 

“You never have to ask that, Jon. Lyanna will always be your mother and I’ll always be your mother as well, for as long as you wish it.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever wish for her _not_ to be. The thought is incomprehensible.

“Always?” Somewhere, at the back of his mind, the words come back, trying to taunt him, but this time, they’ve been drowned out to a dull hum, overpowered by Elia’s warm and steady presence.

“Always.” 

* * *

**(thirteen)**

Father is screaming at mother.

It isn’t the first time, and Jon would stake everything, that it won’t be the last time either.

The only person more disquieted by Father’s temper, is Rhaenys who grows pale every time she hears Father’s sharp baritone raise into an endless stream of caustic anger.

“I hate him.” She confesses to Jon, one day. They are in her bedroom. It’s one of those days, where her body can’t quite keep up, and she’s relegated to bed rest by Maester Pycelle. On these days, Jon likes to bring her a stack of books from the castle’s library and sit by her bedside watching her devour each page at an inhuman pace. “Is that wrong of me?”

Before he can sort through what he wants to say she amends herself with a shake of her head. “Actually, I don’t care much. Even if it was wrong, I would still hate him.” She shifts a strand of inky hair behind her ear, with a huff.

His lips quirk upward. Her words have all the conviction and strength he wishes he himself possessed. There is a part of Jon that resents his father deeply. But equally fierce, and warring with that part of his identity, is a longing for his father’s approval. He wants to be more than the bastard son, someone that Rhaegar can be proud of, just as he is proud of his heir.

“It doesn’t bother me when he yells at me, but when it’s at mo-Elia, I wish he wouldn’t.” Jon offers, quietly.

He feels her gaze on him, and he knows she caught his mistake. “Jon.” She says, it sharply, and he can’t help but look over, sheepishly. Father forbade the use of his Northern name, but Rhaenys and Elia still call him by it in private. “Aegon is an unmitigated ass.”

Jon winces. It had been a couple weeks since Aegon had called him out sneeringly in court when he had mistakenly referred to Elia as ‘mother’ in public.

“ _She isn’t your mother, bastard. She’s your queen. Know your place.”_

Rhaenys had been present, and her face had reddened with rage, but Jon had fixed her with a look, begging her not to say anything.

“She’s your mother as much as she’s ours. If you call her anything but Mother, I _will_ throw something at your head.” Jon’s chest swells with affection for his older sister. He would go out of his mind if he didn’t have her by his side in this castle.

He laughs lightly, “You’re a poor marksman. Best not make empty threats- “A pillow soars through the air, hitting him square in the face, catching him completely off-guard.

When he recovers, Rhaenys is looking exceptionally smug, arms crossed underneath her chest.

“You were saying?”

* * *

**(eighteen)**

He comes of age, when his father decides his place is in the armed forces.

“Ser Forel tells me you’re decent with a sword.” His father barely even glances up at him, more interested in the roasted meat in front of him, but it’s clear the king means to address his bastard son. Aegon hasn’t touched a sword since Jon knocked him in the dirt all those years ago.

Aegon must know it too, for he lets out a derisive snort across the dinner table.

“General Casterly has been notified that you’ll start your training within the week.” The king finally looks at him. He does so, to deliver a warning. “Don’t embarrass me, boy.”

Jon barely gets the words out, still stunned. “Of course not, your grace.”

Mother is less than thrilled at the news. In private she frets over him, her brown eyes huge with worry. “Perhaps I can speak with your father and ask him to change his mind- “

He rubs her shoulders comfortingly. Now that he’s grown, he towers over her easily. Had she always been so small? There’s a fragility to her nowadays that worries him. “I want this, mother.” He reassures her. “It will give me a chance to prove myself.”

She shakes her head, in distress. “Prove yourself? Jon, you have nothing to prove.”

“Everyone sees me as a mere bastard. I do have something to prove.”

“And when you’re dead on the battleground?” Elia trembles. “What will you have proved?”

Jon’s lips flatten, unhappily. He doesn’t want to argue with Mother.

“It’s only training to begin with. Bastard or not, I’m still the son of their king. They won’t kill me anytime soon.” He means the last part as a joke, but the way her brown eyes flash, and her knuckles whiten, he can tell Elia thinks it of anything but a joke.

When he departs for his training, he pulls Mother into a tight hug, and she embraces him with equal fierceness. “Promise me you’ll return, safely.” She whispers into the crook of his neck. “I couldn’t bear it if you-“

He doesn’t let her finish that thought. “I’ll return.” He promises. “Sooner than you think.”

* * *

The training begins promptly, and Jon’s certain he’s never hated anything more in his life.

General Casterly despises every recruit, but he seems to especially despise Jon. The general, old and graying, still has sharper eyes than a hawk and seems to catch every little mistake of Jon’s.

A mishandled sword earns him an extra 10 laps after all the other recruits head in for the night.

Another time, a button is just slightly out of place during uniform inspections.

“Come on, bastard.” The general sneers, as he pokes at the button with his pinky, taunting him.

Another 10 laps. Jon swallows back a snarl.

The next time, Jon answers incorrectly when the recruits are quizzed on strategic formations. He’d stayed up doing laps, while the other recruits had had time to review. Nothing comes to mind, when it’s his turn to answer, and the other recruits begin to snicker as Jon fails to summon the correct answer.

Like clockwork, he’s given 10 laps. Jon’s expression darkens, and Casterly notices straightaway, adding another 10 laps to his existing punishment.

He seriously contemplates quitting during dinner, sore, aching and utterly furious. He’d joined to make a name for himself – to distance himself from his bastardry, yet at every turn, it’s been thrown into his face.

The other recruits don’t ever approach him, but in predictable cowardice, they resort to sneering behind his back, spurred on by General Casterly’s taunts. That makes it all the more surprising when one recruit comes up to him during dinner, sliding his tray on the table and settling in the seat across from Jon.

Jon’s hackles raise, ready for a fight. “The fuck do _you_ want?” He grouses, darkly, not bothering to look up.

“N-nothing, your highness. I didn’t mean to bother.”

His head jerks up, surprised at the timid, polite tone. In front of him sits a recruit that looks to be of similar age, with wide eyes and round cheeks. He looks hopelessly out of place in his armor. The boy looks like a fish out of water.

The recruit gets up, fumbling with the edges of his tray, and obviously means to leave in embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have assumed, of course it was rude of me to just- “

“It’s fine.” Jon cuts in. “You can sit.”

He sits back down, uncertainly.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Sam what?”

“Sam Tarly.”

 _Tarly._ The name rings a bell. His father is a minor Lord of the Southern Kingdom.

“You don’t have any friends?” Jon asks, flatly. When Sam just blinks back in confusion, he clarifies. “You’re sitting with me. So, you must not have any other choices.”

“Oh,” Sam gives him a small smile. “I mean, it’s an honor really. Everybody here is quite jealous of you.” He says it so seriously, that Jon almost believes him.

“I must have missed their feelings of jealousy behind all their sneers of ‘bastard’.” Jon scowls. “Casterly also gets off on making me do laps. I’m half about to quit.” The last part slips out and he curses himself for divulging too much information.

“Don’t do that.” Sam blurts out. “You’re brilliant.”

Jon blinks.

“People like you, belong here.” Sam gestures to himself. “If anybody should quit, it’s me. I’ve seen you doing your laps. You’re incredibly fast, and in all the exercises, you almost always finish first. The other recruits, they treat you like that, because they’re jealous. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do.”

Jon’s mouth opens, then closes. He’s never been complimented by anybody outside of Rhaenys and Elia. It’s embarrassing, and Jon doesn’t know quite how to respond, so he manages, a grunt. “I’m only decent, because I had a teacher back at King’s Landing. He had some helpful tips – I can share them.”

The words feel peculiar coming off his tongue, but Sam’s wide grin nearly splits his cheeks, that Jon’s uncertainty melts away.

“That would be great, your Highness. I can help you too. It’s not that I think you need help, but I notice you don’t have much time to study and I’m ace at memorization, your Highness.” Sam rubs at the back of his neck, sheepishly.

“Jaehaerys.” It feels odd. He’s only ever gone by ‘bastard’ or ‘boy’ during his time here. “We’re both recruits. There’s no need for formalities.” He shrugs.

“Jaehaerys, then.” Sam agrees, easily.

* * *

**(nineteen)**

He returns home, when he receives a missive from Rhaenys. The letter is simple enough but it sends him in a tailspin.

_Mother is ill. Please return, we do not know if she will worsen or recover._

_All my love,_

_Rhaenys_

Rhaenys leads the welcoming party in the courtyard, flinging herself into his arms. “Oh, Jon, I’ve missed you!”

She leans back after their embrace. “You look like a proper soldier.” She bites back a laugh, as she pokes at his bicep. “Where did these come from?”

Jon chuckles, swatting her hand away. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her, till now. The lightness doesn’t last long, however, when he remembers the sole purpose of his visit.

“Mother?” He asks, fearfully.

“She is weakened.” She confirms, her eyes sorrowful. “But she is well enough now to speak and feed herself.” She means it comfortingly, but Jon realizes the buried meaning within her words. There are some days that his mother is so weak she cannot form a sentence or care for herself. Thick tendrils of fear and dread curl around his heart in a tight vice.

“Prince Jaehaerys. It’s a pleasure to see you.” A melodic voice slices through his thoughts, and he comes to a start. Rhaenys is still close enough, that he can feel her stiffen.

A woman steps forward from the rest of the welcoming party. Jon’s never seen anyone quite so otherworldly in her beauty. The woman, clearly a Targaryen, with her silvery blonde hair, and alluring violet eyes looks up at him beneath long lashes, and something in his chest quickens.

“Daenerys Targaryen. I’m a cousin of your father. We met once, when we were both children.”

Jon inclines his head, belatedly remembering his manners. “I’m glad to see you well. Have you been at the castle long?”

She shakes her head. “Only a few months. Your father thought it would be best to have more help, since your mother hasn’t been able to attend to castle matters.” Her full lips curve into a smile, and she doesn’t hide her interest as she gives him a once-over. “I was so very eager to meet you again. I’ve heard of your accomplishments in the armed forces. It’s quite impressive, to be made a lieutenant at such a young age.”

“It was nothing.” Jon shrugs. He’d been lucky. One of the lieutenants had been stationed at another location, leaving behind an opening. He’d been surprised that Casterly had given it to him, but Sam had assured him, he deserved it, having been performing at the top for quite some time.

“I highly doubt that,” Daenerys demurs. “If you’re free for dinner tonight, I would love to-“

“Not to be rude,” Rhaenys cuts in, her tone frosty, meaning entirely to be discourteous _._ “Jon is back to see our mother. We should be getting on our way. She fixes the other Targaryen with a stare, “Perhaps we can discuss dinner plans afterwards.”

Daenerys’ gaze slides over to his sister. “Of course, Princess Rhaenys. My apologies.” Her eyes shift back to Jon, and he sees something dangerous flickering within those pools of violet. “When you’re free, come find me. I’ll be waiting.” She turns on her heel, and a mousy servant scampers after her.

“That woman,” Rhaenys glowers at her retreating back. “The gods chose madness for her.”

His sister gives a shake of her head and manages a weak smile.

“Never mind that, let’s go see mother, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!! welcome back!!
> 
> as you guys may or may have not noticed, i took a bit of a hiatus from the story. 
> 
> as the story progressed, it inevitably brought in some people that had very choice and negative feelings towards what i wrote. and though they were definitely the minority, (maybe 5% of comments, some i’ve deleted straight away bc they’re straight up vitriolic) it was difficult to find the motivation to write and be excited to release new chapters, due to past comments (there was one that dropped the f-bomb on me like 10x yikes).
> 
> i want to be clear though, i in no way think I’m the best writer out there or that my writing is perfect and undeserving of critique (lord no LOL) but i definitely wish if the story wasn’t people’s cup of tea they would simply exit out rather then leave a long winded comment about how terrible of a writer i am, and how they won’t read the story anymore. i spend so many hours writing these chapters, it can be disheartening to have to read unkind things after spending so much time on it :( 
> 
> but at the end of the day i’d rather not focus on those people. i really really want to thank the people who have always been so kind, leaving encouraging words. you have definitely fueled this writer’s ~45,000 words (!!) my updates will definitely not be as frequent as i want them to be, what with school hitting really hard this quarter, but i hope you continue to be patient with me and enjoy this story as it continues.
> 
> thank you (and hope to see you soon) !! <3
> 
> edit: reading all your kind comments is truly making my morning. forgot to mention, i meant to make jon's pov chapter, one chapter, but then it just grew and grew, and i wanted to update since it had been a while, so definitely expect the next one to a big longer (yay!) and we might see a certain redhead appear next time too...
> 
> NEXT UPDATE: nov 3rd or earlier


	11. a bastard's interlude (part ii)

**(nineteen)**

Jon’s heart seizes painfully, as he sits by Mother’s bedside with Rhaenys.

She looks even smaller than Jon remembered. Elia takes up hardly any space, laying at the center of her and father’s large bed. Cold dread sweeps throughout his entire being, as he clutches at her clammy hand, and sees her face, devoid of any healthy color.

“How long has she been ill like this?” He turns to Rhaenys, his voice wracked with anguish.

Rhaenys’ brows draw together, her mouth settling in a tight line. “Two months.” 

“She’s been like this for _months_?” His tone ratchets higher. “Why the hell did you wait months to send for me? If something had happened and I hadn’t been there-“

“Don’t raise your voice with me, Jon.” Rhaenys snaps.

Jon grimaces, suitably chastened. It’s been ages since he’s heard her take on that tone. He knows it’s well deserved. He shouldn’t have spoken to her like that, gods know what she’s suffered since he’s been away.

“I did wish to tell you sooner. Father forbade any communication with you.” Her chin juts down, stubbornly refusing to look at him. “He didn’t want to hurt your chances at promotion.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “It was by a miracle that I got out a letter to the armed forces. And even then, I had my own health to attend to, it hasn’t been easy, you know.”

Jon’s mouth opens, then closes. An acute wave of guilt and shame rushes over him, threatening to swallow him whole. He hadn’t been there for _either_ of them. He’d been so wrapped up with something so _inconsequential_ -

“That’s enough, children.” Elia says, sternly. Her voice is hoarse and weakened, and each broken syllable sends another stab of guilt through his being. “I’m glad to have both of you here. It doesn’t do well to spend our time together like this. Let’s be glad we have each other for now.”

Rhaenys glances over at Jon with an apologetic look, nodding her head. “Of course, mother. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She leans over Mother, placing a sweet kiss on her forehead.

Mother smiles fondly at Rhaenys. They look so alike in this moment, pin straight raven hair, and dark eyes filled with warmth. “No, my sweet girl, it’s fine. I know you’ve had to be so strong, too.” She pauses, her gaze flickering to the door. “Is-is Aegon coming soon?”

His sister falters but manages a bright smile. “You know our dear Aegon, the king has been running him ragged about the castle. He hardly has time to sleep. But he does send his love, mother. Everybody in the castle is praying for your speedy recovery.” 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out when Rhaenys is lying. She’s always had an obvious tell, two quick blinks that precede any lie from her mouth. Even if Jon didn’t know her tell, he knows Aegon well enough, and his half-bastard has never lifted a finger in his life. If Aegon isn’t here – it’s because he doesn’t want to be.

Elia undoubtedly knows this.

Bright, fury surges forth in him at Aegon’s utter lack of care for his own blood and flesh. His teeth grind together, with half a mind to drag the son-of a-bitch in by his ear.

“Send my love to him, Rhaenys. And you, my dear Jon,” Elia’s words seep into his skin, cooling his fury. “Rhaenys told me of your promotion,” she squeezes his hand, with so much affection, that Jon might cry. “I knew you would do well.”

“It’s nothing.” He croaks, shaking his head. “I’m coming back anyways. They don’t need me. You and Rhaenys are more important.”

Elia’s expression drops. “Jon, _no_.” she expels, with a horrified breath.

At the same time, Rhaenys voices her own rebuke. “We can handle ourselves!”

“Truly,” Rhaenys continues, firmly. “You don’t need to abandon your position in the armed forces. There are more than enough people here to help us. And look at me,” She gives him a small smile. “I’m feeling much better nowadays. I’ll take care of mother, better than you ever could.” She adds the last part as an attempt at levity, but Jon’s heart still feels heavy within his chest.

“I’d really rather stay,” Jon tries again. “It’s not like we’re in the middle of a war, my absence won’t be missed.”

Elia shakes her head. “It’s not that we don’t want you here. You know your father would not approve-especially with you doing so well.” She smiles, but her gaze shifts – just for a quick second – to Rhaenys. There’s something uncertain, and almost melancholy about her brief expression, but before he can truly comprehend it, she speaks again. 

“He’s proud of you.”

Something in his stomach pulls taut at Mother’s words. Proud? Hadn’t that been what he’d wanted all this time? From the moment he’d been sent out to the campgrounds for training, he’d wanted to prove to his father that he could excel – that there was more to him than his bastardry.

He wonders why then, if he’s supposedly succeeded, he still feels, infuriatingly _empty_ inside. 

Was he truly worthy in his father’s eyes? Is that why he felt so dissatisfied in it all - because perhaps he hadn’t done enough? The logic was familiar, but it rang hollow.

 _Perhaps_ , a sly voice whispers, _it was because Rhaegar’s opinion of him no longer mattered._

The second the thought runs through his mind; Jon flings it away in horror. That can’t be it. Jon’s entire life-he’s wanted nothing more than validation from Rhaegar. But now, it seems so small, so inconsequential in the face of Jon’s all-consuming fear for his mother and sister.

Jon opens his mouth to try arguing his piece, but Rhaenys won’t have it.

No matter how he tries, Rhaenys won’t be persuaded. She steers the topic to court gossip, prattling on about some affair between a Lady Thorne and one of the stable boys. Jon tries to be present in the moment with his sister and mother but as he gazes at the two, the people he loves most in the world, a dark sense of foreboding crawls about his skin, and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite shake the queer feeling.

* * *

On his last day, before he must return to the training camp, he spends the night at Elia’s bedside, Rhaenys having retired to bed an hour ago. He’s spent every waking hour with them, and still, it hasn’t felt enough for him.

“Jon,” Mother murmurs in such a low voice, that he cranes his head closer, to hear her next words. He presses his thumb in light circles around her knuckles, reassuringly. “Answer me, honestly.”

“Always.” He blinks, taken aback by the seriousness of her tone. He could never – _would never_ lie to her.

“Would you do anything your father told you to do?”

“I- “Jon falters. “He is my king and I am his servant.” His words spill out clumsily, parroting an errant phrase from the oaths he took before joining the armed forces.

That traitorous inner voice comes back with a vengeance. _You don’t care about him, bastard. He’s never given you any reason to deserve your loyalty, much less your love._

It all feels like a test that Elia has suddenly put him up too. A test he desperately wants to pass, but he isn’t sure what the answer is, that she’s searching from him. “What are you asking me?”

A sigh leaves her lips as she reaches up to stroke his cheek, looking at him thoughtfully. “You are so kind and good-hearted, Jon. You realize you are a better man than your father could ever hope to be, don’t you?”

 _Where is this coming from?_ “I-“

I want you to remember, Jon.” Her other hand finds his wrist and encircles it tightly. There’s a fierceness in her dark eyes that is frightening. “No matter what he’d have you believe, you are not only a Targaryen. You have wolf blood within you too. You had a mother named Lyanna Stark who loved you more than she could bear.” His stomach swoops, and he feels as though he might be sick. It’s been ages, since he’s heard his birth mother’s name spoken aloud.

“He despises me because I remind him of the North-“

“To _hell_ with him. “Mother hisses so suddenly, that Jon’s breath catches in his throat. She’s never spoken against Rhaegar. 

“I know you want to please him, Jon, but you’ve surpassed all need to do so. I’m so- “Something cracks, and her fierceness dissipates, leaving behind only a deep melancholy in her eyes.” I’m so proud of you.” A sob escapes her as she says brokenly, “I love you so much, my dear.” 

Jon watches, frozen in horror as Elia dissolves into tears.

It only takes a split second, before he’s reached for her, and pulled her small, warm body against his chest. “Mother.” He whispers against her hair. Her body so delicate, he can feel the shudders wrack through her body, as she struggles for a breath in between tears. 

“I know,” he says against raven locks. In her arms, he always feels as though he is a five-year old child, needing only a Mother’s warmth for comfort. There’s a sort of finality in this moment that Jon loathes to acknowledge. He says the next words, because he’s terrified, he’ll never be able to tell her again. “ _I love you too_.”

* * *

**(twenty)**

Jon regrets leaving the instant he departs from the gates of the castle.

Sam tries to reassure him that Rhaenys and Elia will be fine, but Jon knows it’s all hollow optimism coming from his friend. Sam hadn’t been there. He hadn’t held Elia’s weakened hand, as she struggled to take even a single a sip of water. He hadn’t seen how Rhaenys tried to suppress her coughs every dinner. All to pass on some bullshit façade that she was the picture of health, so as not to worry him, when Jon knew exactly just how many medications lined the shelves of her suite.

He’d tried so _fucking_ hard to stay. Rhaenys and Elia had _insisted_ he leave them. But even when he’d gone to Rhaegar, asking for just another week to take care of Mother, he’d been flat-out denied. Rhaegar had predictably found great amusement in his request, gesturing to the servants and asking Jon dryly if he thought they were there merely for decoration.

It didn’t matter. He should have tried fucking harder.

Jon’s worries and anxieties are momentarily forgotten when Daenerys arrives at the campsite a week after his twentieth birthday.

He’d nearly forgotten her existence, but once she sweeps in, silver furs encasing her slim shoulders, and pretty blonde hair piled atop her head in a complicated plait, the memory of her comes slamming back into his consciousness. The soldiers are predictably entranced by her unearthly beauty, and Jon can’t consider himself immune to her charms, either.

The distant memory of Rhaenys’ warning of her madness all but dissipates once she opens her curved lips and greets him. “Hello, Jaehaerys.”

Casterly constantly gripes about her presence, denouncing her as a distraction to the soldiers. But all Daenerys has to do is slide over a signed declaration from Rhaegar, himself. The proclamation deems her a liaison in charge of directly reporting back to the king of the continued growth and progress of the armed forces. 

It’s an utter bullshit position, Jon knows, and he wonders as to the true purpose of her arrival. He’s seen Daenerys and Casterly walking together, speaking in hushed tones. Whatever the reason, it’s clear she isn’t just passing through. She has her own quarters set up, of course, to ensure that no luxury is spared.

Jon had questioned her, soon after her arrival. “I thought you were managing the castle affairs back home.”

She in turn, had tilted her head to look up at him through full, dark lashes. Half of him uneasy, reminded distinctly of his brother, from the confident way she smiled, to the way her violet eyes flashed with something darker hidden there.

“I was. I much prefer this, though.” She smirked at him. “You’re much more handsome than Aegon.”

Her pale fingers had stretched out and traced the underside of his jaw, lightly. 

It’s almost pathetic how fast he falls into bed with her. 

But what he and Daenerys have isn’t love. He’d been driven into her bed by many things, _loneliness, frustration, sadness,_ but nothing that even comes close to a sort of affection for her. When he gazes down at her sleeping form, he wonders why he can’t even manage an emotion close to fondness for the woman. She’s beautiful, capable, and perfectly willing. 

_It’s a distraction is all it is_ , he realizes. A distraction from the pain. A distraction from the anxiety and worry. And it works, until it doesn’t. 

He tries to manage the renewed pain with another distraction. He works harder than he’s ever in his life, carrying out his missions for the armed forces, coming back late every night, sweat and dirt streaked. The amount of exertion Jon pours forth, does not go unnoticed and Casterly mentions a possible promotion in the near future.

He’d been apathetic at first, when Casterly had first hinted at the opportunity. It was Sam, the only warm constant in Jon’s life, with his faithful optimism, who had pointed out that a promotion was exactly what Jon could use. A promotion meant that Jon would rise in ranking. With a promotion came privileges, and he could use the opportunity to come and go as he pleased. 

Specifically, he could go back to Mother and Rhaenys. 

Jon tucks that thought at the back of his mind and uses it to drive him further.

Casterly, pleased with his progress, invites him to sit in on a meeting between the other Generals. 

The broad-shouldered man walks with him to the meeting, clapping a hand on his back. “You’re doing well, boy. I remember how scrawny you were just two years ago and now look at you!” He laughs raucously at his own words, as only a narcissist can.

“Even your father is impressed. He’s the one that asked me to bring you in on this meeting.”

Jon almost stops cold in his tracks. Rhaegar asked for him – _specifically?_

He doesn’t have much time to consider the implication of that. Soon, the two men have arrived at the meeting room, and Jon gets another surprise. Daenerys is seated among the group of hulking men, looking as prim as ever in her fancy silk dresses, and almost comically out of place.

“Jaehaerys, glad to have you join us.” she drawls, smiling slyly at him. “I’ve been dying for your father to give his approval to allow you into our meetings.”

“I-“ Jon flushes. “What’s going on?”

“A reunion of sorts.” She grins. 

“A reunion?”

The generals all share a conspiratory glance with each other. Casterly is the one to put Jon out of his confusion, when he finally lets him in on the secret that they all seem to share. “Between the North and the South, boy. After all these years, we’re taking back what is rightfully the Targaryens.”

The conclusion comes instantaneously to Jon. _They mean to invade the North._

He’s known this has been a possibility. Jon’s grown up listening to his father’s nightly rants about how the Starks had stolen what was rightfully the Targaryens, all those years ago. The North and South were one, in Rhaegar’s eyes, and they were meant to be one under a Targaryen. He’d dismissed the rants as just deluded visions of grandeur of a graying king. But as he surveys the council of generals, and their detailed maps before them that clearly map out the terrain of the Northern lands, Jon feels as though he’s in a daze. This plan is real.

“The North is ruled by the Starks.” He stupidly says.

“Yes,” Daenerys face pinches up, “The _Starks_.” Something unpleasant swells in his belly at that. “But they’ll be a non-issue in no time at all.”

Daenerys details the plan, positively gleeful. Rhaegar means to extend an invitation to the capitol to Eddard Stark and his wife. If all goes accordingly, he will bring along his children. “The more Starks we can eliminate down South, the better.” Daenerys places her chin delicately on the bridge of her knuckles in a contemplative pose. “Much cleaner, and that way, we don’t have to go up North and hunt the mutts down.”

Jon grows light-headed. He’s nearly certain the youngest Stark is only 5 years of age. The second youngest only a couple years older, still. _Gods he’d been so naïve._ What did he think would come from him joining the armed forces? Did he truly believe that his entire career would be hunting down small-time insurgents or criminals for this father? _Of course, there’d been a bigger plan all along._

“-trade agreements. It’ll be easy to use that as an excuse. And Jon- _Jon?_ ” Daenerys does all but snap her fingers at him. When he meets her gaze, she tilts her head impatiently. “Were you listening to me?”

“Perhaps, the boy doesn’t have the stomach to kill his own blood.” One of the general hisses. Jon’s head shoots up, his grey eyes surveying the room for the man responsible for the outburst. The generals in the room look around uneasily, but it’s clear that they all agree with the sentiment.

Jon tries to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth and summon a snarl to silence their doubts.

Before he can do so, Daenerys cuts in with a severe glare. “The king himself chose Jaehaerys to be a part of this council. If anyone doubts the king’s judgement, I’m more than happy to report your concerns back to him.”

The generals all turn sullen, their mouths tightened in a grim line.

Casterly speaks up. “The boy is more than capable. I’ve personally overseen his training.”

Daenerys nods, satisfied. “Jaehaerys is a Targaryen. He will not hesitate to act against our enemies.” She looks over at him, adoration shining in her violet eyes. “I _know_ it.”

 _“No matter what he’d have you believe, you are not only a Targaryen. You have wolf blood within you too. You had a mother named Lyanna Stark who loved you more than she could bear_.”

Elia’s words take hold of him in a suffocating grip.

 _Breathe. Breathe._ He needs to _breath_ e. The simple act of taking in air, feels impossible. Elia must have known that this would happen, that Rhaegar was planning such an attack. Her words had been a warning to him, a plea not to act and follow his father’s command. 

But there’s no way to refuse, he realizes with dread. If he refuses to join with them, it’s a clear act of treason against Rhaegar and prince or not, he’s easily expendable thanks to his bastardry. If he refuses, he’s certain Rhaegar will call for his execution.

In his periphery, he can see Daenerys wave him over. He forcibly tamps down on his growing nausea, trying his best to project an air of nonchalance. _Fuck._ As Jon makes his way over to Daenerys and feels her hand against his back, the bitter taste of betrayal is thick on his tongue.

_Forgive me, mother._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol when you initially intended jon's pov to be a simple chapter but now it's gonna be 3 chapters. i SWEAR the next update will not take long (estimating maybe a week from now that it will be uploaded?) it's mostly written out, i just desperately wanted to give you an update instead of drawing out the wait time.
> 
> jon's perspective is incredibly difficult to write, but at the same time, there's like all these little things and details that i want to put in which is why the one chapter grew into this monstrous 3-parter HAHA. i can't wait to get back to the present and be back in sansa's pov of course as well.
> 
> hope you all are doing well (esp with certain current events right now lmao (NEVADA pls)) and see you soon!
> 
> ***ps thank you so so much to all your kind words last chapter, i really appreciated it more than i can convey. hoping to do more frequent updates to thank you, especially now that finals are over whew!


	12. a bastard's interlude (part iii)

**(twenty-one)**

Mother passes on a cold, wintry morning.

The funeral is what finally grants Jon leave from the army, and he returns home with a heart fractured with anguish for his deceased mother and a deep-rooted fury towards his father.

It takes all his strength not to lunge for his father’s neck, the moment he catches sight of him. But it’s pure cowardice _still_ that holds him back.

Rhaegar greets him with arms wide open. It’s the happiest he’s ever seen his father act towards him. He even claps him on the back in a gesture of pride as Casterly regales the king of Jon’s achievements.

This was what he wanted – _had_ wanted. _What a stupid fucking fool he’d been._ All he wants now, is an impossibility, buried six feet within the cold ground.

The king’s eulogy for his deceased wife moves many in court to tears, but it only serves to fan the simmering anger beneath Jon’s skin. As heir and firstborn, Aegon puts on his own convincing mask of sadness and spews forth some bullshit story of holding Mother’s hand in her final moments.

Rhaenys had already told him – she was alone with Mother when she passed. The two men had rarely visited Elia as her condition worsened.

It’s a fucking farce they put on- the two men that Elia loved, who never spared a thought for her in turn.

Rhaenys listens emotionlessly to her brother and father's lies. At his side, her long fingers encircle his forearm in a tight vise. His sister stares straight ahead the entire funeral, black eyes shining, betraying her deep melancholy.

Some days it feels as though his sister died right alongside their mother.

Rhaenys is a mere shell of herself, with sunken cheeks and a terrible, chalky pallor to her face. On his initial arrival, Maester Pycelle had informed him that Rhaenys’ chronic sickness, had returned with a vengeance. As the days pass, a dark cloud of helplessness shrouds Jon as he watches over her, relegated to bed rest. Most times, Rhaenys is usually too lethargic to even lift her head or delirious on medication, that she can barely recognize him as he sits by her side.

He makes a decision soon after. He needs to stay with Rhaenys. He lost Elia without being able to do a damn thing. The least he can do is care for his older sister now, when she needs him most.

Jon summons all his fortitude, takes a healthy swig of whiskey, and makes his way to the throne room, determined to wrangle an approved leave from his father.

Atop the stairs, Rhaegar sits, eyes glittering as one of his advisors whispers closely in his ear. Jon can barely hide his disgust as he nears. In his greying age, the king has shed the shining persona he once held as a young ruler, and now resembles only a pot-bellied, angry drunkard slouched in some fancy chair instead of the dignified king he ought to be.

Rhaegar notices Jon almost immediately and gestures for him to come closer.

“Ah, just who I was looking for!”

“I-you were?”

“Yes, yes.” Rhaegar’s fingers thrum against the side of his throne, impatiently. “We’ll be holding a ceremony for your promotion.”

Jon pauses. He hadn’t heard anything from Casterly about a promotion. “I wasn’t aware that I’d gotten a promotion in rank.” 

“Well, why would he inform you before me?” Rhaegar’s brow arches, and then he shrugs uncaringly. “Congratulations, boy. You’re officially a General of the armed forces.”

Jon’s jaw clenches. “I’m…honored that you are entrusting me with such a position, but I…” 

His spine straightens, and he says the rest after a single, sharp exhale. “I’m staying here. I’m not going back to the armed forces. I’m not leaving Rhaenys behind.”

Rhaegar glances down at him. “Fine.” He tosses out,

“And I’m not- “Jon stops short, processing his father’s words after a brief delay. _Did he hear correctly? Did Rhaegar just agree – and so easily?_ “You’ll let me stay?”

The king chuckles, rather amused at his son's stupor. “I’d like to say I’m feeling generous, boy. But it’s more that you’re needed here, anyways. I’ve decided to place you in charge of our Northern operation. If you want to play nursemaid to your sister, then by all means. So long as it doesn’t get in the way of your duties, of course. Casterly assures me you’re more than ready, so I expect perfection.” His violet eyes narrow into sharp slits. “It’s time, my boy.”

Jon swallows hard. “So the Starks have…”

“Exactly.” Rhaegar leans forward with a sly smile. “The Starks have accepted my invitation to come down South.”

* * *

**(twenty-two)**

What follows after his promotion is a blur of clandestine meetings between the other generals, his father, Aegon and Daenerys. Soldiers are sent out to scout out the layout of the North, to confirm the chinks in the North’s armor, and eventually, a near-foolproof plan to lay siege to the Northern hold is devised.

Jon exists in a perpetual state of nausea and disgust at himself. It’s all _wrong._

The North is a peaceful neighbor of the South. Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn Stark are good, just rulers by all accounts. And yet, his father speaks of their impending deaths as though he speaks of a change in the weather. If he had the courage, he would do something about it. He would protest his father’s plans. He would plead with his father to change his mind. If he were the son Elia raised, he would do all these things.

But he can’t.

Rhaegar is too far gone for Jon to say anything to change his mind.

 _And you’re just too much of a fucking coward._ The familiar, snide voice slithers into his consciousness.

* * *

The Starks arrive after what feels like the longest month in Jon’s existence.

Only four Starks enter the courtyard, much to his family’s deep disappointment.

“Now we’ll have to hunt down the other three kids.” Aegon huffs out a cloud of smoke. He sneers down over the balcony, watching the welcoming party with a violet glare. “What the fuck didn’t they understand about ‘ _your entire family is cordially invited for a grand celebration’_.”

Jon lights his own cigarette and glances down at the Northern family, stepping down from their carriage. He nearly chokes on the cigarette between his teeth and stops, cold all over.

Of course, he’d heard the nasty whispers of ‘bastard’ growing up and known that his looks were far from the typical Targaryen look. He hadn’t prepared himself, however, for just how closely he resembled his distant Northern relatives. Looking at Eddard Stark is akin to feeling as though he's traveled a few decades into the future and caught a glimpse of himself.

He’s not the only one to notice the similarities.

“Well, _fuck_. How sure are we that Jaehaerys isn’t Eddard Stark’s bastard, instead of father’s?” Aegon chortles from his place on the balcony. He swings around and gestures with a lazy pull of his hand. “Dany come look. Jaehaerys looks just like the mutts, it’s _uncanny_.”

Dany comes to the balcony, peering over curiously, while Jon tears his eyes away from Eddard, uneasy.

He can’t help his growing curiosity, as the other Starks creep into the periphery of his vision. Catelyn Stark is all elegance and manners as she greets the welcoming party with a good-natured smile. Robb Stark, the eldest son and heir, is tall and lean, with a neatly trimmed beard like his father, but all his coloring from his mother. Jon had heard the man was a talented fighter in his own right.

The daughter is the last one to come into his view.

_Sansa Stark._

Just like her brother, she favors her mother in coloring with fiery red hair barely constrained in a thick braid at the nape of her neck. Sansa swivels around, and as he catches her gaze, something within him _shatters._ Even from this distance, he can plainly see, her eyes are shining with _excitement_ and _wonder,_ and Jon can barely stomach the self-hatred that bubbles forth and smothers every pore on his skin in a suffocating grip.

“She’s a pretty thing,” Aegon drawls at his side, startling him. “Shame.”

Dany scoffs. “For a Northerner, she’s decent, I suppose.” She clucks her tongue. “You’re newly unavailable anyways. I hear Rhaegar’s already in talks with the Tyrells.” She leans forward and her voice takes on a dramatic flair. “Congratulations Aegon, you have successfully plucked the _Rose of Highgarden_.”

“Yes, well, she _is_ gorgeous, that one.” His brother puffs out his chest with pride. “The other day…”

Dany and Aegon’s conversation fades to a dull hum as Jon barely murmurs an excuse and turns out of the room, sharply.

The sharp lines of the hallways seem to bend and wave, as he struggles to get a hold of himself. _Breathe, breathe, breathe, _he frantically reminds himself.

He finds the nearest toilet and empties the contents of his stomach.

It’s all _fucked._

* * *

Throughout the Starks’ stay, Jon makes himself as sparse as possible, spending all his time with Rhaenys out of concern for his sister, and out of necessity for his own sanity. Any time he catches a glimpse of one of the Stark members, his entire being is overwhelmed by a tidal wave of guilt and nausea.

At night, he holds Rhaenys’ warm hand and selfishly wishes for a miraculous recovery from her. He _needs_ someone, he needs _guidance_. He’s never felt so utterly fucking _alone._

Jon knows what he _should_ do. Simply, he should warn the Starks. But Jon has run that scenario through his mind a million times. Each scenario has slight variations, but the ending, Jon’s worst fear, remains unchanged. He envisions his father discovering his betrayal, his own execution, and the worse part of it all, Rhaenys, dying alone, with no one at her side, with his demise. 

He teeters on the edge of treason every time Eddard Stark comes into sight. _Say something, anything –_ his brain screams. But all it takes is a simple reminder of _Rhaenys,_ and his heart throbs painfully, his mouth following suit and snapping shut.

When Jon thinks it can’t get any more unbearable, Rhaegar grows bored and speeds up the timeline on their Northern operation.

“ _Tomorrow?”_

His voice sharpens in alarm, and it doesn’t escape notice.

All eyes in the Council Room dart over to him.

“Yes, _tomorrow_.” Rhaegar frowns. “Do you have dinner plans that you can’t put aside for an execution we have been planning for ages?” he drawls out, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“No,” Jon tries to steady the pounding of his chest. _Fuck._ “I’m just surprised. You told me just a few days ago, you didn’t wish to execute them for another week. I haven’t had time to prepare my men for our course up North.”

Aegon leans back with a taunting jeer. “Looks like Jaehaerys doesn’t have the heart to see his Northern family die, after all. Perhaps he’s lost the taste for wolf blood.”

Jon inhales sharply. He straightens with a cold look, thrown exclusively at Aegon. To this day, his useless half-brother's presence at these meetings is still a mystery to him.“I only meant to look at this from a strategic perspective. Can we be certain that we have the men to secure Winterfell? It’s not as though this is just some neighboring island. Winterfell is a stronghold; it’s held its independency for so long for a reason.”

Rhaegar waves away his concern. “This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. We’ve been planning this for _years._ ” And just because it can get worse, Rhaegar looks up and says, “I’ve already had Ned Stark and his wife placed in the holding cells and the executioner has been notified.”

 _You coward._ The inner voice reverberates in Jon’s ear, piercing, in its accusation. _ You caused this._

Jon’s entire body feels as though it’s been submerged in an ice bath. He barely manages the next sentence. “W-what of the Stark children?”

“They’ll watch the execution. It’s only a matter of time before they join their beloved parents. We’ll round up the others, when we take the North.”

“Can I have a go at the Stark girl, afterwards?” Aegon perks up. Jon has to physically place his left hand over his right arm, to resist reaching across the table.

“Be more predictable, Aegon.” Jon sneers. “Margaery already tired of you?”

“I’m not married yet; I can still have my fun.” His half-brother callously tosses back. “It’d be a waste to let her rot down in the cells.”

Jon bites down hard on his inner cheek.

“Jaehaerys.” Rhaegar’s voice pierces through. “I trust you can expedite things and prepare our men by the morning.”

“Of course, your Highness.” Jon acknowledges, stiffly. The moment he is able, he slips away from the throne room. He makes his way towards his private chambers, moving in a dreamlike, half-dissociated state. His steps abruptly slow, however, when he makes out a figure, waiting outside his room.

The man turns, and Jon frowns. He’s seen this Lord briefly in court, but his name evades Jon’s memory. “Ah,” the Lord smiles, ducking his bald head in greeting. “Prince Jaehaerys. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Lord Varys. I wanted to talk to you. It seems we may have some common interests.”

* * *

Varys asks for privacy, so against his better judgement and the pressing time-sensitive task his father has put him up to, something in the man’s expression, makes Jon relent and invite the Lord into his room.

“What the fuck do you want?” Jon bites out, impatient.

Lord Varys raises a single brow, but shrugs. “Before, I begin, I want you to know that this information recently came to my attention. It has not something I’ve known and purposefully withheld from you my, prince.”

He hands him a single piece of parchment.

“I don’t have to time to read through essays. I asked you what the _fuck_ you wanted from me.” Jon retorts irritably.

“They’re not essays.” Varys replies coolly. “It’s correspondence between your father and a soldier that was meant to guard your mother’s quarters. One of my little birds found it when she was snooping around the castle. I must warn you- it’s _unsettling_.”

That grabs hold of his him. There’s a sickening, roiling sensation in his stomach, as his gaze moves down over the familiar script. It’s his father’s handwriting, there’s no mistaking it.

_Ser Clegane,_

_You have always been the most faithful and loyal servant, and truly, there is no one else better fit for this task._

_I have assigned you to keep watch over my wife’s quarters. To that end, you will ensure that the medicine delivered by Maester Pycelle is never administered to her. Without her medication she cannot last long-_

His vision reddens. His sanity splinters.

The rest of the words fade, inconsequential, to the ones that came before them.

The roiling sensation intensifies, and his legs buckle beneath his weight as he crumples to the floor. Jon can only turn his head to the side as he retches violently into the plush carpet.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

A surge of emotions assaults him. Whatever he once called a heart, has fractured irreparably.

He let this happen. He left her alone, defenseless. He knew his father was untrustworthy, power-hungry, and so many other things, but naively, it had never occurred to Jon just how _unnecessarily_ ruthless the man could be to his own wife, the mother of his two children. What the fuck kind of threat did Elia pose to his father? She’d been the kindest, gentlest soul and he’d murdered her - _fuck._

The contents of Jon’s stomach spew forth once more.

“Prince Jaehaerys, if you are unwell I can-“

Jon glares at the bald man, getting to his feet, shakily. “How long did you know?” He wipes at his face, angrily.

“I-“

“ _How_ _long_?” He roars.

“It came to my attention only several days ago.” Varys replies, his gaze darting around, uneasily. “Prince Jaehaerys, I must ask you to quiet down. You could draw unnecessary attention.”

Jon’s mind inexorably jumps to Rhaenys. “ _Fuck_. Rhaenys, _what about Rhaenys_ ,” Jon cannot still the shaking of his hands. “I’ve been the one to administer her medicine, but they could have tampered with it and-“

Varys gives a tiny shake of his head. “No, my prince. I suspect, they have not attempted anything, seeing as how you are always at her side. I had my birds confirm that Pycelle was giving you the correct medicine. She is genuinely ill, unlike her mother, before.”

This information does little to assuage his fury. “ _That son of a bitch_. I’m going to find Rhaegar and I’ll fucking-“

Varys’ hand whips out; his fingers wrap tightly around Jon’s arm with a dark, warning look in his eyes.

“And you’ll do what?” The man demands. “You’ll kill him, get thrown into jail and let another sycophant like Aegon rise to power?”

“I’ll kill him too, then.” Jon snarls. “Rhaenys was always the best of them. She can lead the South-“

“Listen to yourself.” Varys scoffs. “Rhaenys is not a ruler. She could be, but her body won’t last another decade. She is sick, and unlike your mother, there’s no hope that medication will improve her condition-“

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” He bellows, the rage pouring forth, escaping from every pore of his skin. As if Jon needs a reminder just how delicate Rhaenys’ health is. He glares at the man and lets out a deep, fuming breath. “What is it you’re after?”

“I want what’s best for the realm.” Varys replies, evenly. “That entails multiple things, really.”

His unhurried manner of speaking grates on Jon’s last nerve. “Get to the fucking point.”

“As you wish.” Varys inclines his head. “Simply put, I want your father out of power. I didn’t think I had a viable way of doing so, till recently. Once I found out what truly happened to your mother, I knew I could get you to turn against him.”

Jon’s entire body jerks back. But Varys continues, unbothered. “It’s no secret of your genuine affection for Elia Martell.”

“She was my mother.” Jon grits out. “Of course, I loved her.”

“Yes,” Varys nods serenely, once more. “She was a lovely woman. Only Elia could have loved another woman’s son as her own, as she did. But, back to your father-it’s no secret either, of his failure as ruler. The man’s sanity is fractured. This latest attempt at inviting the Starks over is another attempt on his part to conquer the North, is it not?”

The last hour with his father suddenly comes crashing back down onto Jon’s shoulders. “Yes, he’s-“Jon swallows hard. “He’s already made his move. He’s taken them prisoner, Eddard and Catelyn. They’ll be executed in the morning.”

For the first time in their conversation, true emotion flickers across the lord’s face. He inhales sharply. “So, it’s safe to assume that their fates are sealed, then. The security surrounding their holding cell-“

“Yes.” The finality in the single syllable is heavy on Jon’s tongue. “It’s too late for them.”

The lord is silent for a beat. “Robb and Sansa, then.” Varys straightens. “We must keep them alive at all costs.”

“We have proof that my father murdered my mother. We could go to-“

“Go to who? Come now, you’re smarter than that.” Varys snaps. “Your father has his fat fingers in every facet of this castle. This is _his_ kingdom. You think a simple letter will be enough to take down your father? He can execute anyone he likes. It’s his right as king. You confront your father about this and the only thing that will come from it, is your death.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut.

“Our best bet at ousting your father now, is ensuring that Robb Stark remains alive, so that once word gets out of Eddard Stark’s murder, he can rally the North to overtake Rhaegar. I’ve been able to reach out to a few supporters that would like to see your father gone, as well, but Prince Jaehaerys, this _cannot_ happen without you.”

A dry laugh of disbelief escapes his throat. “I’m a bastard. What the fuck could I do?”

Varys’ gaze sharpens. “Rhaegar _trusts_ you. You’re a general of his armed forces. The intelligence that you could feed back would be invaluable. We _need_ you.”

Jon recoils, at a loss for words, his mind racing at an inconceivable speed.

 _The choice is clear._ Tomorrow morning, two innocent people will die because of his cowardice.

But he doesn’t have to be a coward this time. He can save Robb Stark and Sansa Stark, for fuck's sake, he has to _try_ at least _._

“I’ll do it.” Jon says faintly, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the corner of Varys’ lips lift.

“I’ll save them.”

* * *

When the blade comes down, Robb Stark is the first to break the oppressive silence with a noise that sounds halfway between a feral scream and an agonizing sob. “ _Father, mother!”_

He starts to run forward, but before he can even get three steps in, there’s four guards on him, tackling the Northern prince to the ground. Jon watches the whole thing with a slowly cracking mask of indifference. He tries to remind himself that there hadn’t been anything he could have done, but the excuse does little to dull the horrific scene before him.

Before Jon can stop himself, his gaze travels to Sansa Stark. There, she stands, impassive as a statue, and as pale as white marble. Unlike her brother, her horror has rendered her paralyzed. His stomach pulls tight as though a hook has sliced through his navel, when his grey eyes lock onto her ocean eyes.

 _Fury. Hatred. Wrath,_ all of it palpable and swirling about in a turbulent vortex in her expression.

He doesn’t allow himself to look away. He deserves it all and more.

* * *

All hell breaks loose, when it’s discovered that Robb Stark has escaped from the cells.

It happens exactly when Varys said it would.

Jon tries his best to delay, but he has to send out men to scour the surrounding areas. He manages to reduce the perimeter searched, fervently hoping that the two Starks are long gone.

Varys finds him, almost immediately, despite the resulting chaos. “Where did you send him off to?” He demands in a hushed tone.

He blinks. “What are you talking about? _You_ said you would send them off.”

The bald lord frowns. “No, I thought-you didn’t free Robb Stark?”

“I would think I would recall doing such a thing.” Jon retorts, icily. “You told me you had it handled.”

“I sent someone to do it,” Varys confirms with short nod, “But, by the time he attempted it, your soldiers were already scurrying around like headless chickens.”

“Then someone must have done us a fucking favor.There’s no way that the two siblings could have managed an escape on their own- “Varys’ stiffens and Jon notices instantly, his change in demeanor. “ _What_?” He snaps.

“Robb Stark is unaccounted for.” Varys licks his lips, his gaze darting around. “But Sansa Stark was left behind.” Jon’s blood turns to ice. “She’s still imprisoned down in the cells. Whoever ‘helped’ us, ensured Sansa’s Stark death by leaving her there. Your father is no doubt irate and will want her executed by the evening.”

 _Fuck_. Unprompted, his mind flashes back to Sansa Stark’s trembling hands, and those furious blue eyes of hers. _What the fuck had happened?_

“You need to keep her alive.” Varys insists, as though Jon would ever do otherwise. “If something happens to Robb Stark, she’s our best chance at keeping the North rallied together. Jon do you understand me?”

A burst of anger surges forth through Jon at the lord’s patronizing tone. “I understand, _perfectly_.” He snarls. “ _You_ said you had it managed and that you would get Robb and Sansa out of here- and instead the prince is unaccounted for and Sansa is still rotting down there, moments away from getting her own head chopped off. I said I would help the North, and I will. But I’ll be damned if my efforts go to waste because of _your_ incompetence.”

He storms off, his momentary adrenaline abating his nausea. However, once he turns the corner and enters the throne room, the knots in his stomach pull taut and Jon feels as though his heart is seconds away from bursting outside the confines of his chest.

Jon tries to center himself with a deep breath – and with a single thought _. He has to save her. He has to keep her safe._

Rhaegar is raging in spectacular fashion with his advisors all gathered around, trying to soothe the dragon’s fury, but to no avail. A glint of silver catches Jon’s attention, and Jon squashes his irritation at the realization that Aegon is present.

Jon advances towards his father with a deep bow. “Your Highness. I came as quickly as I could.”

“Jaehaerys.” Rhaegar spits out. “Finally, _someone_ that’s not fucking incapable. I want a search party organized, and I want Robb Stark brought back to me – _dead._

Jon nods. “I’ve already gathered a dozen of my men and sent them around the city and castle grounds – they’re to scour every nook and cranny for the mutt. I’m to join them, as soon as I’m finished here.”

Jon’s quick response and confirmation of action seems to do the trick, and the sharp lines of Rhaegar’s shoulder sag slightly, as he relaxes. But then the king opens his mouth again, “Before you do, I want you to bring me the Stark girl. I want to make an example of her.”

He swears the pounding of his heart is audible to everyone in the room, but he forces himself to maintain his unfazed demeanor. A slip-up here, would guarantee Sansa Stark’s death. “Father, if you wish to beat the girl, then by all means. But, if you’re thinking of executing her, I strongly caution against doing so.”

Aegon’s sharp snicker slices through the tense atmosphere. “Oh gods, Jaehaerys, don’t tell me you want to keep the girl alive just because she’s pretty.”

Jon glares sharply at his brother, “I don’t share your priorities, unfortunately, Aegon. My only concern is for this Kingdom. It’s important we be cautious; we’ve waited so long for the North to be ours.”

Aegon looks ready to retort back but Rhaegar silences him with a raised hand. “What do you mean, Jaehaerys?”

Jon sucks in a deep breath. “I’ve sent out my men, and they’re still searching, but I’m prepared for the worst-case scenario – that being that Robb Stark has already escaped up North successfully.”

“He can go up North all he likes, we’ve secured Winterfell. There’s nowhere for him to run off too.”

“Theoretically – yes. But just because we’ve got control of the castle, doesn’t mean that the Northern Lords won’t be twiddling their thumbs in response to our attack. They’re most likely itching for vengeance. Eddark Stark was well-loved. If Robb Stark makes it up North, he can go to any of them- and he could start garnering support.”

“And what does this all have to do with the Stark girl staying alive?”

“If we kill another Stark, and so publicly, that may bolster a rebellion up North. Eddard Stark mentioned how popular the girl was up North, they all loved her. If we were to kill her – not only would that further persuade some Northern lords to take action, it would for certain, motivate Robb Stark to act.” Rhaegar’s face darkened at the thought. “I’m certain we’ll be able to capture him, but in the meantime, I think the Stark girl is more useful alive than dead.” Jon’s thoughts were racing, the concocted lie spewing forth from him unprompted. “We can tie her to the family. It’ll be that much harder for Robb Stark to get support if there’s doubts about the Stark girl’s allegiance. Once we capture Robb Stark, we can kill her as well, she’ll be useless by then.”

“Tie her to the family,” Rhaegar mused, “As in, have her marry into the family?”

Aegon sits up straight, his eyes aglow at the suggestion. “I’m not opposed at all. I can have my fun before we kill her.” Jon fights the urge to gnash his teeth together.

He contemplates letting it go. If he were to push further, it may alert Rhaegar’s suspicion. Sansa Stark would still be alive if she married Aegon, but _, fuck_ \- he knows exactly what sort of sick ideas Aegon considers _‘fun_ ’. He’s failed to keep her parents safe – so he has to fucking try with her. He couldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t.

His mind leaps and grasps onto the only possible solution he can manage on the fly.

_“Give the girl to me.”_

The throne room goes deathly silent.

Jon feels as though his lung has been punctured. “You promised the Tyrells that Margaery could have Aegon. The Tyrells are a prestigious family in their own right. Though it’s within Aegon’s right to take more than one wife, I can imagine how insulted they might be, when they learn Aegon is to take another wife, when he has yet to even marry the first.” Jon continued. “I was the one who secured Winterfell for you. It’s only fair _I_ get the Stark girl.”

Aegon’s expression contorts, an ugly mixture of fury and condescension as he lets out a derisive scoff. “If I want the Stark girl, I shall have her. I’m the future king, you bastard-“

“Again, with the bastard insults?” Jon sneered. “Can’t say I’m surprised that’s all your brain can muster-“

“ _Enough_.” Rhaegar’s booming voice, silences the room.

His half-brother settles back in his chair with a smug smile.

But then Rhaegar speaks again, “Jaehaerys, you will wed the Stark girl.”

Aegon is on his feet in a flash, his violet eyes alight. “The fuck did you say?”

“Sit. _Down_.” Rhaegar coldly orders.

All the advisors can’t decide where to look, gazes darting from Aegon, to the king, to Jon, and cycling all the way back around again, in anticipation for the fallout of this decision.

“You forget yourself, Aegon.” Rhaegar’s voice is eerily calm. “If you question my authority as your king, you are no better than a traitor to the crown, no matter if you are my heir.”

The prince turns as pale as his hair. The fury still plain in his face, but now another emotion mixed in with it. Jon recognizes it clearly as fear.

“Jaehaerys is right. The Tyrells maintain the agricultural provinces. If we disrupt our ties with them, especially now, it could be dangerous. The Stark girl will be given to him.”

It's as though whatever giant had stomped on Jon’s chest, has finally been felled, and the rush of air that comes whooshing back into his lungs, is sweeter than anything he's ever tasted.

Jon forces a dark grin to stretch out his lips. “Thank you, father. I’m grateful. I’ll be sure to enjoy my reward.” He makes sure to shoot a smirk at Aegon. The satisfaction that bubbles forth at Aegon’s outrage, is completely genuine.

“You did well.” Rhaegar acknowledges. “Our soldiers have laid siege to Winterfell and the Targaryen banners are being flown from their castle walls."

He turns to fully meet Jon’s gaze. Jon has never seen his father look more terrifying, the violet in his eyes, all but disappeared.

“You can have your fun with the Stark girl, but above all else, I want Robb Stark _dead.”_ He spits out the Northern prince’s name as though it’s venom on his tongue. “Then the North will be wholly, and completely, ours.”

Jon inclined his head. “Of course.”

“I’ll bring his head to you. _It’s the least you deserve_.”

A vision of Rhaegar’s decapitated head flashes through Jon’s mind, and a sickening thrill runs up his spine.

He'll keep Sansa Stark safe. And if he survives long enough to deliver her to her brother, he’ll be sure to ask the Northern prince for the honor of giving his father _exactly_ what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo a couple days late (bc i suck) but the last installment of jon's pov is here.
> 
> i'm so excited to get back to writing sansa's pov, it was fun doing jon but also insanely difficult. i hope though it communicated to you guys the struggle that jon/jaehaerys was going through shifting from an immature boy who just did whatever to make his dad proud to someone who could think for himself and try to find the courage to do something for himself and for others. of course he's still flawed, and let's not pretend as though he has made all the right choices (bc obviously he hasn't) but i hope it gave more insight into who he is, since everything's been exclusively seen through sansa's eyes.
> 
> **also hope this chapter helps to clarify that all along varys was only ever working with jon, not margaery. margaery doesn't know about jon's true intentions. she just freed robb because she loves him not bc she was working with the north (but in the future, who knows hehe)**
> 
> anyways, i hope you all are still staying safe and keep safe throughout the holiday season!! thank you again for the kind words, truly means the world to me!!
> 
> hope to see you soon xx


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